


Reveries of the Wasteland

by lamepanda



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Bisexual Male Character, Blood and Gore, Childhood Trauma, Depression, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Miscarriage, Past Relationship(s), Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-01-02 19:09:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21166514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamepanda/pseuds/lamepanda
Summary: The Paladin represents potential. But in order to reach that potential, Van must piece together the puzzle of his grief.





	1. Denial

**Author's Note:**

> Follows the Brotherhood of Steel and Minuteman questline. Some canonical divergence to facilitate narrative flow. The piece will alternate between character viewpoints each chapter.
> 
> !! DISCLAIMER !!: To maintain the integrity of the narrative and create appropriate tension, individual trigger warnings per chapter will not be provided. Instead, I highly encourage you to browse the additional tags for all adult themes to be addressed throughout the course of this fic as they have been noted there. Some of the chapters may delve into varying levels of details for the noted triggers. Thank you.

He was nineteen when he first killed a man. He’d missed the first bullet, or ten, he didn’t remember. Not that it mattered in the end, his victim fast expiring, the life flowing freely from the blooming petals upon his chest, soaking into the parched earth. Dread, fear, regret: all things they had said he’d feel when this time came to pass. But in the moment, he had only felt relief. Years of listless existence, a clambering for sense of purpose, all eradicated in one fell swoop. He could get used to this. This sense of utility.

So come the time he was plucked unceremoniously from the world as he knew it, and flung into post-war Boston, he fell into a meandering pool. His purpose spent and served, forlorn; collecting dust over the fireplace mantel. Hero, veteran. Words that meant nothing to him, empty without their underlying effects. But through it all, She had provided a small comfort. He made her happy, She said. So he did have some use after all.

Waking up from his cryostasis in Vault 111, in many ways, was a reprieve. But it came at great cost, his heart heavy and wedding band seemingly much too tight. By the time he had ventured out the vault and came privy to the irradiated abominations roaming amidst the now ravaged backdrop of Boston, it had all been too familiar. Different day, same shit. 

He needed answers, and by some crock of shit, so happened upon what appeared a relic of the Old World. A group that pronounced themselves the Brotherhood, their structure a mimicry of the military of old. He’d fallen in with them, and the days passed quickly, his quest for the truth growing further from his mind. Already it was verging on eight months since the start of this new hell. And as of current, hell walked towards him, its rotting limbs dragging across the pocked floor.

He steadied his hunting rifle and peered down the sights. A feral ghoul fell into his crosshairs, the skin of its decrepit head teasing the trigger. Inhaling sharply he held his breath and pulled. With a loud crack, the ghoul’s head exploded in a momentary display of gore, the remnants of its rotting innards plastering the wall behind it. Holding the gun steady, he scanned for any residual movement. The low murmur of the wind whispered across the wasteland, seemingly unperturbed.

He sighed and packed the stray bullets back into their respective boxes and laced his boots. Having secured his rifle to his back, he surveyed the map on his Pipboy. He was a few hours out from the Cambridge Police Station. Rhys had sent him off to dispatch hostiles in the surrounding region. The man’s disdain towards him was obvious and mildly amusing at best, and to spite him Van opted to flaunt the spoils of his nepotism at every given opportunity. He particularly regaled in the attention afforded to him by the leader of the recon squad, a fact that had elicited many a hushed whisper amongst the Scribes.

It was not long thereafter that Van found his gaze lingering after the Brotherhood Paladin. His eyes roving over dampened black locks, callously pushed back whilst toiling over repairs; or along the hardened muscle, glistening under the fluorescent lighting of the power armor bay. It had started innocently enough, with what he initially identified as admiration for the man’s work ethic and seniority. However, such notions became increasingly outlandish with each night spent desperately chasing release; stifling groans as he spilled over onto his palm to those very images committed to memory. 

So he had taken it upon himself to suppress such thoughts. He crammed his days and nights full, shouldering as many tasks from Haylen and Rhys as he could manage before the Scribe started to inquire into his physical and mental condition. His time spent at the station was minimal, limited to the routine check-in to provide progress reports and alerts to successful completion of mandates. An exercise in futility, however, as his feelings persisted; festering into a frustration that had begun to create a notable strain on his relationship with the Paladin.

Stepping over the debris of the dilapidated shelter and narrowly avoiding the splattered gore, Van started towards the police station. The faint green glow emitted by his Pipboy cast strange shadows that danced across the surrounding refuse littering the streets. The trek was a routine one for the most part, with an expected number of hostiles dispatched by a few quick bullets to the vitals that sent them crumpling to the ground. There were only a few anomalies in the form of raider patrols scoping out new settlements, best avoided by stealthily slinking along the opportune cover provided by the long shadows of the Boston city square.

As he neared the police station he could make out the outlines of two power armored guards standing alert by the makeshift gate surrounding the perimeter. As he walked past them he offered a curt nod—a gesture that was reciprocated in turn—and approached the closed doors. He steadied his breathing and with bated breath opened the doors to the station. He first caught sight of Haylen engaged in conversation with Rhys whose expression quickly soured at the sight of him. Following his gaze, Haylen turned towards him, acknowledging his presence with a polite smile.

“Oh, look who decided to come back,” Rhys chided as he walked towards him. “I take it that the area is clear?”

“Affirmative.”

“Really? Maybe you’re not entirely worthless. Here, your payment.” Rhys tossed the bag of bottlecaps unceremoniously at his feet. “Report to the Paladin, he wants a word with you.”

Unholstering the rifle from his back Van steadied it momentarily in his hands. Rhys’ brows shot up across his lined forehead, his mouth opening in exclamation. Van continued to carefully snag the drawstrings of the pouch with the bayonet mounted at the end of the firearm, before tossing it effortlessly into his hand. Rhys looked positively livid, his mouth agape in what appeared to be a conflict of rage and disbelief. Behind him, sharp exhalations of breath were audible as the spectating Scribes stifled their snickers. 

With a smirk Van shouldered past the angry Knight, earning a few hidden gestures of praise as he turned into the hallway. He continued down the corridor before halting in front of the office door that lay slightly ajar. The low static of a dispatch radio attuned to the BoS airwaves issued forth. A moment’s hesitation, before he rapped his knuckles thrice against the chipped paint. A gruff voice issued promptly, granting him entry.

He strode over to the metal desk in the center, and propping his rifle up against the wooden chair, settled himself opposite of the seated figure. He appraised the space: it was mainly comprised of loose leaflets scattered in the semblance of groups and a lone pack of Fancy Lads Snack Cakes™. It was notably empty and only just visible, peeking out from over its tall and precarious perch of stacked documents. A headless power armor frame loomed in the corner of the room, its missing head dominating the remaining space on the desk. Paladin Danse glanced up from amidst his paperwork to fix the soldier with a grin.

“Impeccable timing soldier. Elder Maxson will be pleased to hear of your return.”

As his breath caught in his throat, Van coughed. Attempting to regain composure, he pointedly fixated upon a distant hole in the wall directly to the right of Danse’s head, “Is there a particular occasion sir?” The grooves of the hole were slightly tapered, shallowing as it extended outwards. The chipped plaster appeared to have been clumsily repaired, its shoddy workmanship lending to its current state of disrepair.

“We have been requested aboard the Prydwen, we are expected by 0800 tomorrow.” 

Reluctantly, Van pried his eyes away from the wall to survey Danse’s face, attempting to make light of this curious development. Almost immediately, he caught sight of a rogue cake crumb adhered to the man’s bottom lip. The low grumbling of what may have been words was lost on him, muting into an indiscernible hum. He watched the rogue crumb as it mocked him, dancing astride its rosy pedestal. He wanted to reach out and snag it, dispose of its tantalizing mockery; but instead bunched the fabric of his cargos in his fist, urging his hand to remain stationary.

“Soldier, repeat back to me what I just stated,” the voice issued forth as a sigh.

“Elder Maxson requests our presence aboard the Prydwen at 0800 tomorrow.” 

Danse raised an eyebrow in feigned surprise before continuing, “Make sure you are ready to board at 0600 sharp, the vertibird will be docked outside of the station by 0530. You are to bunk here tonight as we cannot afford any potential delays in scheduling. Scribe Haylen will brief you on your accommodations.” A flash of red in his peripherals and Haylen marched forwards, stopping short of the metal desk. “Any questions soldier?” Van answered in the negative and was dismissed. 

As he rose to gather his things, he glimpsed the Scribe discreetly engaging the Paladin, gesturing towards her mouth with a finger. A pink hue enveloped the patches of pale skin that peeked through the thick facial hair. It was as Danse began to run his tongue over his lip that a violent screeching filled the room as the chair was forced aside; Van hurried past Haylen, nearly toppling her in his haste.


	2. Futility

The vertibird sat perched overtop the Cambridge Police Station, the weathered metal glinting faintly under the overcast sky. The clouds loomed ominously, it appeared a storm was fast approaching; timely flight would be necessary to avoid transit through any rad clouds. Danse adjusted his helmet and glanced at the time in the P.A.I* (Power Armor Interface), 0605. It was as he was signaling the adjacent Knight to escort the new Initiate that a head of brown hair peaked over the edge of the building, promptly accompanied by a set of wide shoulders and residual form as the figure scaled the ladder. 

“Soldier, you’re late.” The reprimand was met with a silent fixed stare. “Tardiness is not permitted; ascertain that this is the last of such infraction.”

“Noted, Sir.”

With a gesture from the pilot signaling takeoff, Danse and Van boarded the vertibird with two Knights in tow. Accompanied by the laborious cranking of the engine, the aircraft took flight into the darkening sky. Danse held onto the railing flanking the open door and faced the Initiate. 

“If you spot anything hostile during the flight I suggest you put it to good use.” Danse indicated the mounted machine gun. “Make sure you properly identify your targets before you start shooting. We don’t want to have any mishaps and fire on the locals—”

The words had barely passed his lips when the air was assaulted by the sound of gunfire as just visible speckles across the plain were eradicated with alarming accuracy. Completely fixated, it was another moment before Danse adjusted his slackened jaw. 

Danse’s first impression of the man had been colored favorably; wielding a hunting rifle and pistol, he had cut down the onslaught of feral ghouls with the practiced aim of an experienced killer. At the conclusion of the shootout, Danse had been surprised to discover the identity of their savior to be younger than he had initially anticipated, the man appeared no older than himself; perhaps even younger by a few years. His primary instinct had been to recruit him, a choice that was much contested by his immediate squadron; Knight Rhys in particular. 

In compromise, he had offered the wastelander a probationary period, fulfilling extraneous Brotherhood initiatives whilst Haylen gathered relevant intel on his background. The search proved fruitless, yielding but a handful of leads that tapered off with obscure pre-war records detailing veterans of shared names. Regardless, the man’s role in securing Squad Gladius’ position at the station was undeniable, and he leveraged this detail in obtaining an order of recruitment from the upper command. With the proper training, he was certain the wastelander would prove to be an invaluable asset to the Brotherhood.

The vertibird shook as it traversed through a particularly bad patch of turbulence, Danse adjusted his grip on the railing. “Hold steady, we’re nearly there.” From amidst the shades of green and accumulating rad clouds, the Prydwen emerged, its magnificent contours standing proud against the angry sky. 

Van whistled. “Wow, she sure is something.”

“Marvelous, isn’t she? With the Prydwen here, Elder Maxson is here, and that means we’re going to war. Aboard, she carries advanced cavalry to mount top of the line offenses. The enemy best be prepared.”

The arms of the landing pad extended as the vertibird drew near, and with a final resounding clank, secured the aircraft in between its metal bracers. Waiting on deck of the airship was a solitary figure clad in navy military fatigues and a sailor’s cap with a rather conspicuous insignia of the BoS—a half-crescent of arcing wings overlaid by a greatsword with a halo of interlocking cogs—emblazoned upon it.

“Lancer Captain,” Danse’s voice issued over the sound of shifting metal plates as he tucked in the arms and legs of his power armor in a disjointed two-step salute.

“Paladin.” The man returned a curt nod. “And you must be the new Initiate Paladin Danse has taken under his wing, I’m Lancer Captain Kells.”

Van extended a hand to grasp Kells’ in a firm handshake, “Van Lauer.” 

“You’ve received quite the commendation, but I will have you know that such praise will grant you little in the Brotherhood. From here on out, you will have to prove your merit through utmost dedication to the great initiative. Do I make myself clear?”

“Permission to speak freely, Sir?”

“Granted.”

“What is this ‘great initiative’?”

“That is classified intel, you will have to wait until Elder Maxson addresses the crew. Until then you may acquaint yourself with the ship. Dismissed, Initiate.” With a parting salute Kells retreated to the upper deck overlooking the landing pads. A peal of lightning flashed across the green sky and from a distance, low rumblings of thunder ushered in the rain. The remaining soldiers on deck shuffled up the slick stairs and through the awaiting metal door.

“We’re taking too many rads, we better head inside—” Danse trailed off as he caught sight of Van standing motionless amidst the trailing sheets of rain. Head upturned towards the sky, the water soaked his hair and seeped down in rivulets that coursed over tan skin. Eyes closed, he wore an oddly peaceful expression; rather unbefitting amidst the insidious downpour. Danse called out again, finally managing to rouse the man in time for the two to slog along; bringing up the rear to the metal thunk of the door as it slammed shut.

The ship bustled with activity: Scribes weaved in and out arms laden with documents and artifacts, Knights tinkered away at weapons workbenches, and fresh-faced recruits sauntered about; wide-eyed in equal parts fascination and uncertainty. If but one thing could be attributed to the Brotherhood, it was its relentless tenacity in its pursuits. Danse found it all a source of major comfort; something that had been rather scarce in another life. 

That was not to say it had been all negative, it had been a rather simple life—as simple in its pleasures as its motivations. There was many a day spent under the blistering sun of the Capital Wasteland haggling over glorified junk and nights that were squandered, ogling lasses in between pints at the Muddy Rudder. Elder Maxson’s address was the catalyst upon which it had all diverged. From the day he joined the Brotherhood, he was granted companionship and much needed direction where previously there had been none. 

And likewise on this stormy afternoon, Elder Maxson stood—aboard the hull of this hulking war vessel akin to home—painting a vision of the future and paving the road upon which they would embark. He spoke at length of the Institute and their abominations; the synths. They were to be afforded no mercy and eradicated at all costs. The Elder took a moment to dust off the length of his magnificent battlecoat, trailing his hand across the tanned leather.

He took a deep breath before continuing, “The notion that a machine could be granted free will is not only offensive, but horribly dangerous. And like the atom, if it isn't harnessed properly, it has the potential of rendering us extinct as a species. This campaign will be costly and many lives will be lost. But in the end, we will be saving humankind from its worst enemy... itself.” 

Silence overcame the crowd of Initiates before salutes traversed down the line erratically, like the desperate writhing of an expiring slug. A sole figure remained still, silent amidst the others signaling solidarity.

Danse dismissed Van with instructions to familiarize himself with the rest of the crew, whilst he had taken the moment’s reprieve to unwind in the communal showers. Weeks of active duty had led to substantial buildup, of which stress was one, and the relief he felt upon release was significant. By the time he had divorced himself from the warm waters, it was nearing evening hours. He routed towards the canteen in anticipation of the first of few where he could lay to rest completely satiated. Luxuries of late were increasingly synonymous with such simplicities. 

As he made his way past throngs of soldiers and the odd recruit, a passing Scribe, arms particularly laden with a number of pre-war knick-knacks, took an unfortunate tumble. Objects flew in a disorderly array, littering the hall with pre-war memorabilia. Danse approached the Scribe—now frantic in the recovery of displaced goods—and lent his aid.

“I’m sorry Paladin Danse, I’ve been rather clumsy all day,” Haylen protested. 

“Not a problem. Spoils from the latest expedition, I presume?” It occurred to Danse that encounters with Haylen had been rather frequent as of late, though considering the better part of the latter months had been spent in cramped quarters, he supposed such was a matter of happenstance.

“Yes, these were the items the recruit recovered from the old Atomics Factory. Proctor Quinlan requested they be brought aboard for further testing.” Haylen fiddled with some film that had unraveled from its cassette tape. “Orientation went well I hope?”

“Excellent address by Elder Maxson, as always. The recruit has officially joined our ranks; we have another Knight aboard now.” Danse straightened his posture. “I’ve agreed to be his sponsor.”

“I see, that’s… good news! The recruit seems quite capable, although…” Haylen paused, a momentary shadow flitting across her face. “Actually, I better get these to the Proctor before he hounds my case. Ad Victoriam, Paladin.” With a parting salute, Haylen retreated whence she came. 

Danse paused, befuddled by Haylen’s abrupt departure. He thought her demeanor strange as it was contrary to her general chipper temperament. He considered following her but resolved otherwise at the grumblings of his disgruntled stomach. As he neared the mess hall, the sounds of heightened voices ventured forth. With each approaching step, the voices became more distinct until he could distinguish between several:

A gruff tenor accused, “—you some sorta synth fucker?”

A steady voice, slathered with a dollop of sarcasm, “For the amount of preordained, mindless drivel spewing out of your mouth, I’d be hard-pressed to acknowledge you as anything other than a synth.”

A loud bang resounded as Danse rounded the final corner. A small group had gathered by the side tables, the figures closest with their backs towards him, barricading in three others. Knight Sergeant Cade and another, whom he could not identify by name, had pinned Knight Van against the wall. Van spat blood in Cade’s face before fixing him with a bloodied grin that promptly earned him another punch across the face.

“Stand down, Knight Sergeant!” Danse shouted as he pushed his way past the spectators. Eyes turned to appraise him, several widening with recognition whilst the latter turned away in wilful ignorance. As he approached, Cade and the adjacent man unhanded the third.

“Knight Sergeant Cade, what is the meaning of all this?”

“Paladin, this new ‘_Knight_’ of ours,” Cade’s face contorted at the word, “is wholly insubordinate. I was disciplining him accordingly.”

“Knight?” Danse addressed Van who took a generous length of time to wipe away blood against the back of his hand before replying.

“You heard the man, he was compelled by none other than his utter lack of autonomy.”

Cade made to lunge at Van but was restrained by two soldiers and a firm hand Danse placed upon his shoulder.

The Paladin continued, “Knight Sergeant, this ‘discipline’ of yours is out of line with our code of conduct. As for you Knight, respect is one of the fundamental pillars of the Brotherhood; you would do well to remember it. A disciplinary report would be appropriate for the lot of you,” several drawn breaths along the crowd in anticipation of readied protests, “but considering the occasion, I will waive the misdemeanor. Consider this an ample warning for all.”

The crowd dispersed to the tune of shuffling boots and muted sighs. Along the metal walls, glimpses of stars were visible, contained within the small globes of the windows. As Knight Van turned towards the doors Danse called out to him: 

“Knight, a word.”

Van stopped and turned to look at Danse. In the fluorescent glow of the canteen, the smears of blood, and rapidly materializing shiner, showed particularly gruesome.

“As your sponsor, I am dedicated to aiding you in your steady integration with the Brotherhood, in both body and spirit. If you are ever in need, remember I am here to help.” Despite his smile, Danse’s brow furrowed.

Van stared back silently. The last of the stragglers finished their meals and dragged their tired limbs towards the bunks. He opened his mouth, contemplating the beginnings of a response, but in the end, merely nodded and said, “I think I may need to head to the infirmary.”

“Of course,” Danse said.

Van swivelled on his heel and made his way towards the exit, his strides long and slow. Danse watched the doors through which the Knight had retreated for a short while before taking his own leave. It was not until the fifth hour lying sleepless in his bunk that he realized he had forgotten to eat after all.


	3. Lapse

He blinked a few times in rapid succession, or rather, what he could manage of it. His eye had swollen overnight and a sliver of vision was all that he could afford on the rightmost side. Poor timing for reduced visuals, but then again, he had always had a penchant for finding himself in unwitting circumstances. 

The days had begun to bleed into nights and with each passing one, it was all becoming too familiar. The senseless killing. The desolation. Loneliness. He felt increasingly numb, unphased by the violence and accompanying vitriol. He tapped into underlying reserves of what he had previously buried in the hopes it would remain dormant: a series of tactics curated for the explicit purposes of survival. Eat, sleep, kill, ad infinitum. The previous day’s indiscretion had nulled this, if for but a brief moment.

The day’s start consisted of a briefing on yet another mark. The aim: to bestow extinction upon the super mutant population holed up at Fort Strong, preliminary to the recovery of live nuclear artillery stashed away within its walls. It was a hefty fortification, encased by groups of roving mutant warlords and brutes if the scout reports were any indication. Van and Danse had set out before dawn, using the few hours of darkness lent by early morning to make headway towards their objective. Very few words were exchanged between them, save for occasional enemy spotting and relaying tactics. Danse lumbered forth in his T-60, his conspicuous clanking resolving all hopes of a stealth approach.

They happened upon a patrol of four mutant brutes and a hound, Danse holding the front and sending a flurry of beams from his gatling laser, while Van held a strategic point behind him; sniping brutes from the shielded radius of the Paladin’s power armor. With the last of the group downed, Van reached down to sift through the enemy’s fallen gear, recovering a reinforced arm bracer which he held up for closer examination.

“Anything useful?” Danse asked.

Van tossed the bracer aside and moved onto a set of metal pliers, found tucked away in an indiscernible nook of the mutant corpse, which he stashed in one of the many pockets buttressed on his padded vest. He persisted in this manner as Danse watched, whose source of fascination stemmed not from the loot’s utility, but rather from the sheer amount of it that Van managed to stuff into his seemingly bottomless pockets. 

The two continued towards the Fort, more silence stretching across the duration of the trek. Van observed Danse from the corner of his good eye, catching sight of several stolen glances. The sun was well into the sky now, its bright rays revealing all under its stark glow. Even from this distance, a super mutant behemoth was visible, its hulking frame outlined against the backdrop of the sun like the head of a particularly dastardly mountain. The two men huddled behind a looming trash heap, taking the opportunity to strategize their approach.

“Looks like there are two of them apart from the big one,” Danse said. “We must proceed with caution, behemoths may be unintelligent but they make up for their stupidity in considerable brawn. Their slow speed is perhaps their weakest point; we will have to account for this in our approach. Your thoughts?”

Van took a moment to contemplate the suggestion, his mind chugging along at a downright pitiful pace, in no part aided by his acute awareness of Danse’s physical proximity. With considerable effort, Van pried his eyes away from the sunlight dancing off the tips of Danse’s lashes before responding:

“Kiting the two outliers from a distance could allow for easy execution at relatively low cost. With just the behemoth left standing we could chip away at its defenses with heavier ordinances before closing the distance for the final assault.”

Danse’s brows tilted upward in surprise. “A fine suggestion. We should take opposite ends for a more substantive approach and keep the enemy within the perimeter. I’ll head to the furthest point. Hold your ground here.”

Van watched as Danse set out across the field, moving along at a slower pace to dampen the sound. Once the Paladin had reached the waypoint, he rested the tip of his gatling laser on the ground before signaling with his free hand. Two rigid fingers acting as pointers, hand angled backward before slinging forward, indicating the target. One. Two. The number of seconds elapsed before the barrage of gunfire released.

_Bang_. A bullet strafed a mutant’s leg. _Bang_. Green heads turned to locate the source. _Bang_. A green arm ripped from its socket. _Bang_. A green leg followed suit.

The two men continued along the edges of the perimeter, moving positions in syncopated rhythm to the bullets before lining up their next shot. The behemoth roared, swinging its gargantuan club aimlessly along its path. The two mutants hobbled towards them, their missing limbs spewing blood. _Bang_. _Bang_. With a crack, the two strays’ heads exploded in tandem; bits of bone, and organ coating the ground upon which they crumpled.

Van glanced at Danse—who had closed the arc and was headed towards him—when he spotted a mutant hound, its green jowls dripping with saliva, rapidly closing in on the unsuspecting man.

“Paladin, behind you!” Van called out as the mutant hound propelled itself upwards at Danse’s head.

Angling the butt of his rifle outwards, Van charged towards Danse—who had only just managed to avoid the hound’s lunge with a well-timed parry—and smashed the hilt against the animal’s head. The hound whimpered as it buffered from the blow, providing Van with an opening to stake the bayonet through its eye socket, its dying squeals alerting the behemoth which turned towards them with an arcing swing of its club.

“Open fire!” Danse’s voice was quickly drowned out by the whirring of his gatling laser as it warmed to the tune of rotating barrels.

The earth shook beneath them as the behemoth approached. The metal of the shopping cart strapped to its back, clattered as it jiggled violently with each footfall. At the center point, a ray of sun glinted red along the curved barrel of an object lodged beneath a headless mutant corpse. A missile launcher. 

“Cover me!” Van yelled as he ran towards the fallen body. The gap between him and the looming giant decreasing at an alarming rate, Van grasped at the weapon, willing it forwards. The slick of the blood made for an easier job of dislodging the missile launcher, allowing him to simultaneously pull back its crank in one fluid motion. Between the blitz of laser beams unleashed by the gatling, Van managed to hone in on the behemoth’s leg. He held his breath and aimed.

_Boom_. A dull sound and limited recoil and then—nothing. The behemoth lumbered forth unperturbed. The motor of the warhead was defective.

“Fuck, shit. Fucking shit,” Van swore aloud as he fumbled with the warhead fins.

“Knight, we have to retreat!” Danse yelled as he advanced towards the behemoth, focusing his laser at the mutant’s face, causing it to momentarily stagger. He renewed his assault with emboldened war cries in an attempt to divert its attention.

Van plunged his hand into his vest; the force of his beating heart thudding against his hand. He cursed his earlier junk-happy enthusiasm before finally managing to procure a matchbox from the depths of his endless pocket.

_Thud_. _Thud_. The edges of the behemoth’s shadow had already enveloped him in its shade. 

“Eat this, fucker,” Van said as the litany of flames licked its way up the match. He held it against the tail end of the warhead and tipped the launcher towards the behemoth’s looming head.

A deafening _boom_ and Van was catapulted backward along with the missile’s release. The warhead met its mark, a blinding flash accompanying the end of its trajectory. Van lay forward in the dirt, shielding his face from the blast. When he finally righted himself he was met with brown eyes. Danse’s face—brow crinkled in the effort to hold himself bridged over Van in a protective stance—was a mere breath away from his own.

“That could have ended more terribly,” Danse said, smiling at his own jest.

Van’s breath hitched in his throat, a strange phenomenon that was somehow uncoupled with the strain of his most recent feat, and wholly dependent on his sudden awareness of all that was Danse. From this distance, he could see the details in the man’s face: the small scars that decorated his skin and the blemishes that peaked out from beneath the stubble of his facial hair. Imperfect and beautiful. It awakened within him a feeling of familiarity; of days spent in unadulterated happiness, contained in stolen pockets of time with the woman he loves. Loved.

Danse angled sideways, releasing Van, before getting to his feet. He brushed the dust off the metal of his chestplate and grabbed hold of his gatling.

“We best make way while the weather’s this clear.”

The sun beat down, its rays hot against his skin. Van propped himself onto his elbows and squinted against the beams, wincing as the bruised skin of his eye smarted. He rose to gather his things and as he straightened, felt a slight tug. The chain around his neck slipped forth from his collar, weighted down by the two rings strung upon it. He took a moment to readjust the chain, tucking it back into his shirt.

They were midway to the fort now. The shadows of their surroundings lengthened until they happened upon themselves, blanketing the plain in darkness. As the fatigue set in, their movement speed slowed. At long last Danse suggested they conclude the day’s trek and catch a few winks in preparation for the new day.

They set up camp, starting the smallest of fires for reduced visibility, and unfurled two bedrolls. Van produced two boxes of Salisbury steaks and handed one to Danse. Once sufficiently heated over the fire, he peeled back the shrink wrap and took a bite; 200 years’ worth of sitting in plastic had not done much for the flavor. Van laughed. The absurdity of the situation tickled him. Munching on TV dinners in prelude to carnage as casually as one would hamper down for a show premiere; it was quite the predicament he found himself in. Danse looked rather startled but thought better than to question this odd outburst, instead opting to divert the conversation.

“Great work today. I’ve got to admit I’m quite impressed, you’re quite the soldier.”

"Much appreciated, Paladin,” Van replied.

"You may speak freely, no need for formalities when we are off the field. Call me Danse."

Van paused before correcting himself, "Danse." 

It was an alien feeling uttering the name aloud, and not for lack of repetition. There was many a time he had recited much the same: oft alone, with a few uttered in the midst of passionate throes with some stranger. Such had earned him a rightful slap on more than one occasion. A small smile played upon Danse's lips before the corners puckered into a frown.

"I have been meaning to ask. Scribe Haylen procured documentation on a Van Lauer predating the Great War. Is he a family member of yours?”

"That’d be me. One Van Lauer: 2nd battalion, 108th infantry regiment."

Danse's brows rose, steadily in line with his realization, "But that means…"

"Yes, I was a vault-dweller, if you can even call it that," Van's lips curled into a lopsided grimace, "more like a glorified popsicle for the better part of two fucking centuries."

Danse looked positively vexed. He swallowed, a wishful attempt at suppressing his unasked question as if it could tangibly be flushed away.

Van chuckled and said, "A popsicle is a type of frozen treat."

Danse averted his eyes, his pale skin turning a shade that could not reasonably be excused away by the glow of the fire.

"I didn't mean to imply," he asserted, "—that is... it was an entirely inappropriate question, Knight. I apologize."

"No need for formalities, remember? And technically, you weren’t the one that did the asking, so don’t worry yourself," Van said. "We were… duped into signing our rights away under the guise of ‘vault life.’ And as luck would have it, the bombs dropped just in time to save us the bore of trudging through the fine print.”

Van recalled the cheery Vault-Tec representative. Had he elected to slam the door on that cherubic face, perhaps he’d have gone to that park with Nora. Engaged in some form of public indecency behind a well-placed bush. Held her in his arms as they basked in the afterglow before being blown to bits. Perhaps he wouldn’t be alone.

Van fiddled with the chain around his neck, turning the silver rings around in between his fingers. He let out a breath that sounded more as a sigh and looked up at Danse, whose eyes looped in rhythm to his twiddling rings.

“My wife…” Van swallowed hard, trying to dislodge the lump in his throat. “She didn’t make it. It’s just me. I’m the only one that survived.”

The last of the fire fettered out, the last embers glowing faintly in the dirt. In the darkness, Van could only make out a silhouette where Danse sat, next to the empty power armor frame that stood guard as a tall shadow. A whisper in the semblance of an, ‘I’m sorry,’ was lost to the evening wind. Wetness trickled down Van’s cheek and for the first in a long while, he allowed himself to weep.


	4. Echoes

They were an unlikely pair and from the moment they pledged their fealty to the Brotherhood, scrutiny and rumors abounded. Many were benign, contemplations regarding their origins while others asked after minutiae in the hopes of securing an in to acquaint one or the other; dependent on taste. Some rumors were more sinister, speculating upon the depth of the pair’s relation, going so far as to ponder their degree of intimacy. Truth be told, the two were long acquainted and familiar over their shared time in Rivet City, the struggle of having forged a living on the trade of junk to the disenfranchised and displaced uniquely shared between them. As word would have it, the man with the sunlight curls went by Cutler and the other answered to Danse—seemingly unbefitting of a man of such stilted nature. The two were sighted together more often than not outside of the odd training exercise and such remained unchanged despite the passing days.

Danse dragged his tired limbs towards the mess hall. His muscles cramped from the day’s reps and impressions of Paladin Krieg’s barks still resonated in his ears. He honed in on a quiet corner of the room and sat himself with a metal tray. Roasted molerat tail was the menu of the day, a notable improvement from the previous day’s installment of simmered bloatfly gland. He munched down enthusiastically, savoring the tangy zest. It was as he was mid-bite into a particularly scrumptious bit of meat that a man sat himself opposite the table before tearing at a chunk of Danse’s molerat unprompted. Wielding his fork, Danse swatted the man’s hand away with a well-timed smack. Cutler’s eyes widened in feigned shock as he cradled his hand in his left.

“A bit stingy there Danse, so much for sharing.”

A muffled ‘_getyerown_’ was all Danse could manage in between sizeable bites of tail. Cutler extended a hand to swipe another piece but pulled back empty-handed, save for another hard thwack against the knuckles that drew forth a quiet curse.

“Alright alright, watch the fork,” Cutler said as he massaged his hand. Danse let out a satisfied grunt at his victory as he continued to chow down on the quickly dwindling portion of meat. Cutler watched Danse for a time. He asked, “Paladin Krieg lay into you again today?”

Danse downed the last of the molerat and using the lump of soggy bread meandering on the tray, mopped up the remaining juices, eeking out every last bit of nourishment from its contents. It was only when he finished that he let out a contented sigh before responding: 

“Same old, the old man chewed me out over afternoon drills; my form wasn’t to his liking.” Danse took a large swig from his glass.

“Man must be upset, deprived of his afternoon fuck.”

Danse choked on his water, coating Cutler’s face in a fine spray. Several soldiers turned in their seats to regard the display, in time to see the soaked man reaching over the table to pat the other’s back in an effort to ease his coughs. After an extended bout of whooping, Danse steadied his breathing.

“It’s not all brahmin shit, hear me out. You know that Knight? Squad Regus, the one with the,” Cutler gesticulated towards his chest with two cupped hands. “The word in the barracks is that Krieg’s ‘nightly mandates’ are all but mandated. They’ve been at it for weeks now, just yesterday a soldier found them in the power armor bay. She was strung up all ladylike from the station with Krieg tucked in behind her.”

Danse hacked up another round of coughs and grasping his glass, drained the remainder of its contents. Cutler laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He continued, “Guess she finally tired of waiting on the chance that you’d spare her a glance.”

This gave Danse pause. He had noticed her of course. And in spite of his best efforts, the odd gaze had wandered in distant appreciation amidst some grueling workout. Of course, the finer details had been lost on him, the nuances of her bright eyes and excitability in his presence misconstrued for general familiarity and politeness. Cutler shook his head, the man’s cluelessness never failed to astound him. Surely it would take nothing short of lips wrapped around the most delicate parts of him, and even then it wouldn’t be absent from scrutiny.

The two men headed towards the medical bay, Cutler conjuring some vague excuse or other of mysterious body aches that seemingly manifested in concordance with a certain Scribe’s shift schedule. This fact had not escaped even Danse for he had once spotted flowers atop the Scribe’s desk, flowers that looked awfully familiar to ones Cutler had procured during one of their expeditions, coupled to mutterings of their alleged ‘medicinal potency’ (of which they had none; Danse had since referenced the _Plants of Wastes_ lexicon).

Cutler sat on the edge of the metal examination table, shirt removed for no feasible reason while the Scribe fussed about. She ran a hand along the curvature of his back, her fingers lingering just a moment too long over the man’s shoulder blade. Cutler made a display of wincing, his eyes crinkling as he winked at Danse over the Scribe’s head as she bent forth to a renewed flurry of fussing. Danse rolled his eyes in turn.

The Scribe proceeded to affix several compresses along Cutler’s arm, the bandage pulled just a tad too tightly in jest, Cutler responding with false bouts of indignation. The display was rather nauseating and Danse quickly excused himself, unnoticed for a time until Cutler’s eventual reappearance at the barracks. Cutler shadowed Danse along the corners of the room, a particularly smug grin imposed over his features. He busied himself with a number of senseless things, his listless plodding inciting several glares from the bunking soldiers. At last, Danse grabbed Cutler by the collar and led him to a pair of unoccupied bunks, seating him. 

“Out with it,” he said.

Cutler’s grin widened, his teeth glinting as they caught the candlelight. “Next I’m off this wretched ship I’ll be touring the town with a certain birdie. Shore leave in the city should be a sight to behold and with any luck not the only one at that.”

Cutler’s excitement was palpable, if not a tad excessive, his muffled hurrahs yelled into the thin tweed of the mattress further rousing the sleepers. Danse threw his pillow at Cutler, catching the backside of the man’s head, but it did little to dampen the man’s infectious spirit. The smug grin remained a mainstay feature for a number of days.

Danse sat on the ledge of the landing deck. Cutler had asked after him with word to meet by the Main Bay. A subtle haze hung in the air, obfuscating the view below until it was all but a featureless stain. A breeze swept across the decks, sending up a flurry of dust bunnies that circled before dissipating. A few residual gusts ruffled his hair. Danse looked up as the sensation grew in insistence, replaced by Cutler’s outstretched hand as he continued tussling. It felt better than he was willing to admit and he permitted it for a time until the man finally tired, letting out a drawn-out sigh before taking a seat.

“Long night?” Danse asked.

“Just needed to clear my head in time for tomorrow. It’s going to be a big one, of that we were assured.” Cutler looked off into the distance, his eyes focusing on nothing in particular. The two sat for a moment in silence, the only noise coming in the form of distant laughter that resonated as tinny peals from the helmeted guards stationed by the doors. 

“Mutants?” Though phrased as a question, Danse’s inflection implied otherwise.

“Looks like it; should be a routine run. Clear the point and get the fuck out.” Cutler turned to look at Danse, the curls framing his face splaying out like a golden halo as they caught a lick of wind. “But that’s not why I called you out here. I’ve been meaning to give you this.” 

Cutler pushed a hand into his jacket to tug at the zipper of his jumpsuit. Danse shot him a look. Cutler stayed the motion of his hand, “Don’t get excited now, I’m spoken for.” 

Danse made a half-hearted start towards Cutler—the man had incurred a good jostling indeed—but was dissuaded by another gust that set his heart aflight. The haze in the distance appeared to thicken, crawling forth in tendrils that snaked its way across the ground. Cutler resumed his rummaging, digging further into his jumpsuit. His face settled into a smile as he drew forth a leatherbound package, no larger than a deck of playing cards. He handed it to Danse.

“A book?” Danse asked as he turned the package in his hands. It appeared to be bound in cured brahmin hide—hinted by the slight reddish hue infused in its coloring. He rifled through the pages, running his hand over the delicate ivory that was free from blemish, save for some scrawling inked into its starting pages.

“Notebook. You’re always scribbling into that old tattered rag of yours, thought it was due time for a replacement.”

The rag in question was an old manual, originally intended for the press of pre-war strategy no doubt, its latter pages waterlogged to the degree of having washed away the initial contents in their entirety. It had since been repurposed for the use of recording snippets of lost knowledge that Danse encountered on his travels, inscribed for the fear of muddled details if he were to commit them to memory alone. Danse was speechless for a time. He was aware that his practical nature was a point of contention for Cutler, who amongst other things, had wrestled him from the vise of an all-too-familiar but ill-fitting garment on more than one occasion. And though he was loath to admit it, he was grateful for the thought. Such a fickle thing it was, and seldom spared in these parts. 

Nuka-Cola Cherry. Cutler’s favorite. Danse made a mental note to procure a unit on his next expedition.

“First passage is complementary; the rest will cost you a shiny cap.” Cutler held up five fingers, “Apiece.”

“Greedy bastard,” Danse nudged him playfully.

The haze had now swallowed all corners of the visible plain and where it hung in the air it took on a shimmering quality. Cutler’s face distorted in the mist, flushed in a sickly luster.

“Danse,” the word echoed from everywhere and nowhere.

‘Cutler?’ Danse meant to ask but his mouth felt as if it was forged in lead. The haze inched ever closer, encasing him in mist and making it hard to breathe. From somewhere within he heard his name again, seemingly sounding clearer than the last. 

“Danse!” An invisible force grabbed hold of him and shook. It was as he swayed to its momentum that the mist finally lifted. Danse looked up into Van’s insistent face whose good eye was wide with apparent concern. Rotting wooden planks comprising the ceiling stretched out behind Van’s head from which several droplets of water hurtled downward, their desperate struggle to cling aboard ultimately lost. As Danse righted himself he felt a sharp pain bloom across his temple. He winced as he grazed at it with an armored hand.

“Easy,” Van said with a gentle hand supporting Danse’s arm. “You took a pretty hard hit from those bastards that snuck up on us.” Van indicated the two bodies strewn on the floor, their faces indiscernible under coats of blood. Danse rubbed his temple again. His working memory seemingly tapered off some time after having entered the Fort, a large chunk of time contained within a distant fog that he could not conquer.

“What were you thinking?” Van asked. His voice was low and strained, though it sounded more as a result of undulated restraint rather than caution. Danse was lost, entirely unsure of how to respond; he dwindled before electing to remain silent. Not that a response was warranted anyhow as Van went on, not in the least phased by Danse’s utter lack of refute, “You’re the Paladin, the ‘great initiative above all?’ You shouldn’t be throwing your life away for any old chucklefuck that charades as a soldier. And all for what? You’re no good to anybody dead.” Van was pacing around the room now, the cut over his black eye opened fresh somewhere amidst his incensed tirade.

These words didn’t make much sense to Danse who continued to turn the phrases in his head in a vain attempt to milk some meaning out of them. He had a vague idea of their implication but could not adequately recall any telling details. He eyed the floorboards overhead and caught sight of a gaping hole, its size roughly equivalent to that of two grown men. The two corpses lay strewn directly below, the missing floorboards jutting out from underneath their lifeless forms. The scene jogged his memory, snippets of thought, and images traversing through his mind as he recalled the moments prior. 

That’s right. They had entered the room, Van holding the front as they scoped the perimeter. The room had been empty, save for some debris and nets containing entrails of questionable origins littered about the floors. He had heard some shuffling from somewhere above and then a creaking that quickly turned to splintering as the ceiling boards gave way. Van had noticed a second too late, his bad eye having failed him, and so he had made a dash towards the commotion and pushed Van as far away as he could manage before everything came tumbling down. Past that his memory was muddled, just a stretch of black that transitioned into the present moment. Thoughts that had presided over the stretch in between had already begun to elude him, though he seemed to vaguely recall having awoken from a familiar dream.

“Get a grip and stop masquerading as a hero, just save your own ass next time,” Van’s voice was scathing. A sudden rage overtook Danse. All semblance of his usual reason and patience seeping away as he rose to his feet and closed the space between them in three short strides. What little space remained he closed by grabbing ahold of Van’s collar.

“You are out of line,” Danse said. Van glared back, his eyes alight with a fervor. Van grasped at Danse’s power-armored hand with both of his own, making a meek attempt of removing it, an attempt that was quickly thwarted as Danse pushed Van’s back into the wall, whose feet dangled off the ground as he increased his leverage. Blood trickled down Van’s cheek, etching further trails of red across his already reddening face. It was only as slight gurgling noises started to issue from underneath his hand that Danse relinquished his grip. Van slid down the wall until he was sat on the ground where he coughed and wheezed. From underneath his power armor frame, a tremor racked Danse’s hands.

Nervous energy coursed through Danse, his breathing growing heavy and belabored and the smell of decay that clung to the walls ever more pungent until it consumed all of his conscious thoughts. Rotten flesh, death, decay. Wherever mutants traversed these things followed. Danse squinted against the shadows that appeared to lengthen before his eyes, creeping closer until they threatened to devour his entire line of vision. A mutant hound’s dying squeals seemed to resonate from somewhere far away. Danse felt sick. Ever since that time he no longer had a stomach for such things. Something cold and clammy grasped at him, sending a violent shiver down his spine. 

“Hey, hey,” Van’s voice reached him through the darkness. “Breathe.” Danse gasped, exhaling the breath that had hitched in his throat. Quick disjointed spurts of breath tamed themselves into longer steady ones. The darkness in his vision ebbed away. Danse found himself on his knees, the strength long having abandoned his legs somewhere in the midst of his distress.

“I don’t know what got into me,” Danse said after a time. He buried his face in his hands, his heart beating hard in his ears. The last of the adrenaline drained away, resolving his jitters and leaving fatigue in their wake.

“Perhaps you should lie down,” Van said.

“No, I just need a moment.”

Danse sat alongside Van and slumped against the wall, the metal of his armor making a dulled thud as it met the concrete. The cool of the rock’s surface was pleasant against his spinning head and so he sat for a while, eyes closed. Something light brushed against Danse’s cheek. A gentle thing that traced soothing trails into his skin. Before his rational thought could quite make sense of it, steady pressure was applied along either side of his face. He opened his eyes, in time to see Van close the space between them, guiding him in with a steady pull as he planted his lips over his. Van kissed Danse, his lips firm but gentle, fluttering against his own for a brief moment before pulling away. From up close Danse could see the flecks of gold scatter amongst the browns of the man’s eyes as they caught the stray rays from betwixt the slats of the boarded windows.

Danse was aghast, his mouth opening in surprise but Van closed the distance yet again before he could venture a word in otherwise. Van’s mouth was more demanding this time, his lips surprisingly soft in stark contrast to the roughness of his stubble that scratched against his skin. Danse felt something wet slip into his mouth, his lips pried apart by Van’s more fervent ones. It was as Van began to mount his lap that Danse found his resolve and pushed the man away, a bit more forcefully than intended in his haste. Van massaged his wrists where they impacted with the floor to catch his fall.

“This is inappropriate, Knight,” his statement issued rather airy as he chased his breath. Van rose to his feet and straightened his chestpiece. He turned his back to Danse and headed towards the door, gun in hand. He paused at the door frame.

“You’re right,” Van said, “this whole thing was a mistake.” Van walked away, without so much as a glance backward, leaving Danse with nothing but his warring thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanted to experiment with the chapter structure as I wanted to delve a bit deeper into Danse's trauma. Of course, since the canon doesn't provide us with any details about Danse's friendship with Cutler I had to run with my own interpretation of what that might have been like.
> 
> Also, I remember reading a while back about someone's headcanon regarding Danse carrying a small notebook everywhere to record his thoughts and discoveries of the Old World, and that always stuck with me. Wanted to include it here as I think the idea is very complimentary of his character.
> 
> Finally, a lot of anger and confused feelings this chapter but considering their individual stressors it appeared to be the most realistic scenario.


	5. Delusion

There was something particularly intoxicating about having someone suck you off. An inherent trust imbued in the act as you relinquished total control to—at times—strangers, in whom you placed your confidence in the hopes they’d bestow upon you some small pleasure. Of course the alternative was a moment’s indiscretion that could otherwise lend to a world of pain, and though he never fancied himself a gambling man, Van often found himself tempting Lady Luck as of late. He found similar comfort in drink and chems, their temporal provision of bliss a welcome escape from the reality of the shithole he found himself in. He could get used to this. Blotting it all out until nothing but the dregs remained, dregs that did manage to instill some sort of ease in him, as baseless as it were.

Van took another hit of Jet, the fumes heavy in his throat. The discomfort was short-lived as he felt the onset of bliss, the world slowing to a snail’s pace and the seconds in between stretching out into a bout of euphoria. He felt light-headed and in spite of him laying still, the world spun in a blend of color, the hues searingly bright. The sparse scattering of furniture in the room breathed. Their forms oscillated like fields of grass in the wind. Feeling the end of his trip nearing, Van flailed his arm over the edge of the mattress, a piss-poor attempt that accomplished little else apart from shuffling random papers and, in a cruel twist of fate, nudged the drawer even further from his ailing grasp. He resorted to his tried and true method.

“Dogmeat!” Van called out. The quick scurrying of nails clicking against floorboards sounded loudly from somewhere close. A blur of black and orange swept past the door and soared through the air as the German Shepherd launched itself onto the bed, licking the sleep from Van’s tired face.

“Good to see you buddy,” Van said as he stroked the dog’s fur. The tingling of his skin amplified the tickles as Dogmeat continued licking him. Van redirected Dogmeat’s attention to the floor. “Think you can grab that for me? Fetch!”

Dogmeat tilted his head to one side, his tongue lolling out in a sloppy grin. His ears perked up and he hesitated for a moment before dashing out of the room, his sudden departure stirring up a slight gust that raised goosebumps down the length of Van’s bare skin. Van sighed and fumbled once more, his ailing grasp brushing against the edge of the drawer. As he went to grip at its corner the drawer was forced aside, the strange but tremendous force applied against it causing it to splinter as it crashed into the adjacent wall.

“Fuck!” Van yelled, throwing his hands over his face.

“Like hell I’m going to watch you shoot yourself up with that crap.”

Van splayed out his fingers and peeked out from behind them to see Nick sifting through the contents of the offending drawer with a foot. Having located a box of Grey Tortoise, Nick bent down to retrieve the carton. Pulling out a cigarette, he lit it with a scuffed metal lighter that he produced from a pocket of his trenchcoat. The synth took a long drag, the smoke billowing out through the hollows of his cheeks. Nick made his way over to the window and thrust the heavy curtain aside, flooding the room in sunlight. Van stifled a cry as the light assaulted his eyeballs.

“Garvey says you’ve sealed yourself away from civilization for weeks now.” Nick took another drag before waving his cigarette in disparaging circles. “Now, if you’re done pitying yourself, we’ve got a case to crack.”

Van groaned, turning away from Nick to bury his face in the pillow. Nick, having none of this, gave the man a good ol’ shove in the rear with his boot, sending him teetering off the edge of the mattress. The string of expletives that followed flowed with the enthusiasm of a burst pipe. 

“If you think that hurt, there’s a lot more where that came from,” Nick said. “And throw some clothes on, you ain’t impressing anyone.” 

Clicking nails announced Dogmeat’s return, a teddy bear clasped in his jaws. He dropped the toy at the old synth’s feet, his whole body wagging at his barely contained excitement. Nick was Dogmeat’s favorite person in the Commonwealth, second only to whomever could barter with the biggest piece of brahmin meat, though Van was ripe to contest otherwise.

“Don’t keep me waiting too long, my joints ain’t what they used to be.”

Nick snatched the pair of soiled cargos perched over the broken lampshade and tossed them in Van’s general direction. He scooped up the teddy bear. Dogmeat plodded happily along, nipping at the synth’s swinging tailcoats as he swept out of the room.

It took them the better part of a week to reach University Point, the initial stretch of their journey mainly comprised of long hours of what appeared to be Nick leading them in circles, instilling a creeping suspicion in Van that the trek was little else than a poorly disguised intervention. By the time they had looped around West Roxbury Station for the fourth time, Van had had enough. He feigned tying his boot, bending away from view to raise up the hem of his pants where he undid the strap securing his hidden unit of Psycho. It was the only one that had managed to avoid Nick’s keen eye during his initial confiscation of Van’s stash. Nick had denied it of course, but Van had observed the synth emptying out his vest and pack during the wee hours of the night, puncturing holes in his tubes of Jet and emptying his syringes before throwing them in a burlap sack and tossing them away into the neighboring stream. The synth was well-versed in the art of sabotage, he’d give him that.

As Nick engaged a nearby mirelurk in combat, Van seized the opportunity to inject the Psycho. The feeling of relief was instantaneous, his body relaxing from the shakes and his fever cooling. His head felt clear for the first time since they had set out. Throwing the empty unit aside, Van felt the pressure amount in his chest, a guttural roar ripping through him as he charged towards the creature. He didn’t even bother to unholster his firearm, instead grabbing onto one of the small fore-pincers and popping it straight from the mirelurk’s socket, cracking some of its shell in the process. Nick finished it off with a clean shot from his 10mm, wedging a bullet into the sweet spot tucked away on its sensitive torso.

Nick cast a wearied eye at the man, his lack of words instilling a deep sense of discomfort in Van that would otherwise have been spared in their presence. However, the inevitable fallout of his indiscretion was cut short as a small voice sounded from a nearby fridge, “Help! Is anybody there?”

Both froze in surprise, though the initial shock passed quickly and Nick made headway for the door. He pried at it with the broken handle that lay to its wayside, employing it as a makeshift crowbar. A few grunts later, they stood facing a small ghoul child, his clothes hanging in loose tatters over his form as he climbed out of the concave of the white ceramic. He shielded his face from the sun, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the light. 

“Thanks Mister! And you too, Mist—” the child trailed off, his mouth flopping open as he stared at Nick.

“Pick your jaw off the floor, kid. Or next thing you know, you’ll be biting down on bloatfly.”

“What’s your name?” Van asked.

“My name’s Billy,” Billy said after an extended bout of rude staring. The child’s eyes protested against the rawed skin of his decrepit face, fixing Nick with a bug-eyed look that annoyed him greatly. Nick’s retaliation took the form of short beeps muttered under his breath. This startled Billy who hid away behind Van. Nick let out a chuckle.

“So… Billy. Care to explain what you were doing in that fridge?”

When Billy was certain Nick was not, in fact, counting down to his inevitable doom; he cautiously stepped forward out of Van’s shadow. He explained, “I heard the sirens, I tried to find someplace safe. Everything was shaking and falling apart and I just crawled inside. When it got quiet again, I tried to get out, but there isn’t a handle on the inside,” Billy’s downturned eyes looked up with a new intensity, “I just want to go home, can you help me? Please?”

“Sure thing, kid,” much to Van’s own surprise, the words fell from his mouth without a moment’s hesitation. From his side Nick beamed at him. The party of two, newly turned three, made their way towards the Peabody house, located somewhere within Quincy as per Billy’s directions. Van and Nick brought up the forefront and rear, keeping Billy safely tucked between them. Van expected Gunners—it was their territory after all—but they found the area mostly cleared out, save for a few stragglers. The two made short work of them and by the time the swamped house came into view it was only just short of dusk.

Van was pleasantly surprised to find two sentient ghouls inside, admittedly he had been contemplating his course of action in the very likely circumstance that the child’s parents were dead (having since settled on the idea of assigning him to one of his settlements nearby), but his fears were unfounded. Billy ran towards the ghouls, launching himself into their open arms. A flurry of hushed cries and relieved sighs were exchanged, the two saviors forgotten amidst the teary reunion. Finally, the ghoul draped in the floral white dress strode over, firmly grasping Van’s hands with her own. “How will we ever thank you?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Van was rather short with her. He felt an odd sense of irritation well up.

“Well, at the very least, we want you to know that our home is open to you if you are ever in need,” she said with a warm smile before shifting over to also extend a heartfelt thanks to Nick.

“Just doing what we do best, Ma’am,” Nick said with a tip of his hat. The two slipped outside, leaving the family to their rejoicing. At Nick’s mention of the time the two set out towards the Atom Cats Garage; Van hoped Zeke’s offer of a friendly domicile was still standing. The two shuffled along in silence, much of the tension plaguing their earlier trek having mellowed in lieu of their most recent success. Nick ventured a word, addressing the thought that had been on his mind since they freed Billy from the fridge.

“Those folks seemed real happy to have their son back. We did good today.” Van nodded in response. Nick continued, “For all its perks, it gets real lonely as a synth. What I wouldn’t trade for a taste of it; having others of your own flesh and blood. A family.”

“It isn’t as good as you’re making it out to be,” Van said.

“Why do I get the feeling you’re speaking about your own folks?”

Van paused. If he were honest he would validate the synth’s intuition but instead he chose to lie, “No, they’re too long gone for me to feel that way.” It was half the truth anyway. They had been gone a long time now, the parents—that were such only in title—that left him with nothing but the blood that now coursed through his veins, anchoring him to this miserable existence he could hardly harken to living. 

Existing. That was more accurate.

Zeke greeted them at the barricades, clunking over in his power armor, ushering them inside the Red Rocket that had since been remodeled into Atom Cats headquarters. Van stripped off his armor and clothes before slipping into a sleeping bag, Nick taking the time to chat up Bluejay for some much needed supplies. The withdrawal from the chems afflicted Van, cold sweat breaking over his skin as he tossed and turned. He assumed another night of listlessness but somewhere in the midst of his harried desperation, the sleep that had been eluding him for nights fell over him. Van slept.

He had asked for an action figure. Grognak the Barbarian limited edition model, clad in only his green loincloth, poised triumphantly over the fallen body of a great basilisk. The other children had been exchanging figures for weeks and this was the first time Van would get to participate. He remembered watching his mother as she primped in front of the cracked mirror, smoothing her curls down with manicured fingers. She had been beautiful, he had always thought so. 

When they finally arrived at the shop, his mother had handed him a twenty and left him by the aisle. ‘I’ll be right back,’ she promised. That was the last he saw of her. Somewhere in between loud wails he had managed to list off the number of his residence and his father arrived to collect him, having gotten off early from his double-shift to the disparaging remarks of his boss. In the end he was $20 lighter than he had begun and with nothing to show for it, the figure forgotten on the counter.

He didn’t want for much after that.

It was not until much later, when he was old enough to understand such things, that he learned that his mother had run off with the local grocer. For a time Van harbored a great hatred in his heart. He faulted her, though on some level he understood, as his father’s presence was all but present in their home. They had travelled to the Americas at the promises of abundance and greatness only to find the claims a gross misrepresentation of the apathy that was its reality. 

By the time he could legally enlist, he had seized the first opportunity to escape his home life. Leaving behind nothing but a note scrawled on a crumpled serviette, ‘I’m leaving,’ it read. For a time he sent portions of his cheques addressed back home until one finally bounced, the envelope returned to him unopened, ‘DECEASED RECIPIENT,’ stamped across it in red. He couldn’t even muster any tears. The inquiry he made into his father’s death yielded some vague descriptor of a workplace accident, worded so ambiguously it could hardly be classed as exhaustive.

He had contemplated giving up then. Perhaps he’d let his hand slip in the heat of some gunplay or venture into enemy territory unarmed. ‘Missing In Action,’ his records would read. But at the very least there would be some record of him, some evidence that he—Van Lauer—once existed. A living, breathing, shitting human being; even if there were no one left to remember it. But something always held him back, his ministrations betrayed by his own reflexes, some part deep within him holding on to some sliver of hope.

And then he met Her.

Van threw back his fourth shot of whiskey, the alcohol burning his throat. He reached for another Gwinnett Stout, pushing past the other empty bottles. Nick caught his hand in his own, the exposed metal of his fingers raking over Van’s skin.

“I think you’ve had more than enough.”

From his current bleary-eyed state it almost appeared as if the synth was frowning. Van giggled at the absurdity of the thought. Nick nudged Van’s hand away and placed it back onto his half of the table.

“So what happened to you up there in the clouds?” Nick eyed Van, watching him carefully. He had dragged him here in the hopes the spirits would loosen the man’s tongue as he had steadily refused to spill the beans of what currently had him in such a tizzy.

“S’just business Nick,” Van slurred his words.

“Like hell it is!” Nick yelled, the patrons seated by the bar turning to stare at him. He lowered his voice, “Garvey sent word with Carla to Diamond City. Said something’s off with the General. I told her Garvey’s worrying over nothing again, but what do I find when I get to Sanctuary Hills?” From the way the question lingered in the air, Van surmised what followed was nothing he wanted to hear.

“You reeking of booze and sex, barely able to string two words together,” Nick said, confirming Van’s suspicions. “Now, I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately, but I’d really appreciate it if you could bring back that other guy. The man that risked life and limb to do this old bot the favor of putting Eddie Winter into the ground. Not this husk that’s wearing his mask.”

Nick’s plea had the intended effect, snapping Van out of his inertia. Van felt himself sobering from the alcohol, the stream of his conscious thoughts adopting some reason again. Nick was right, he usually was, not that Van would ever grant him the satisfaction of admitting so. 

“I’ll have it sorted.” Something in the way Van said the words quelled Nick’s worries, not ridding them whole, but enough that the synth no longer felt the need to prod any further. He rested his case, leaving a handful of bottlecaps on the table for the trouble before stepping out into the chilly night of Goodneighbor. A passing ghoul winked at Nick, twiddling her fingers at him rather coquettishly. 

Nick emptied out the last of his Grey Tortoise, savoring the smoke as he puffed it out in rings. “So when are you headed back up?”

“Can’t say for sure.”

Nick snubbed the butt of his cigarette against the metal of his hand. “We still need that intel if we’re banking on making our way into the Institute.”

“I’ll make it happen,” Van said. He knew what he had to do. It was the only way, or at least, the only way he could manage if he had any hopes of making it out half as sane; albeit a little broken in the process.


	6. Ricochet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One E-rated instance in this chapter but since it’s real short and heavily plot-driven it didn’t feel right to uptick the rating just yet. Those wishing to protect their precious virgin eyes have been forewarned lol.

The mallet met his hand with a definitive crunch. It took him a moment to recognize the scream as his own, the pain ridding his head of all thought that was not the current inferno of his hand. The mallet fell to the ground as Danse doubled over in pain. Haylen appeared soon after, red hair spilling out of her cap. Ferals. The station had been overrun with ferals again and the past few days had consisted of not much else apart from patching up the barricades. A great many of the corrugated sheets were already worse for wear, hanging haphazardly off of one another.

“Here, let me have a look.” Haylen examined Danse’s hand, taking care to support his wrist to avoid applying any pressure. It looked mighty gruesome. Splotches of purple bloomed across the knuckles that had already doubled in size; the whole thing bulbous and throbbing. Haylen’s next few words did not come much as a surprise though their implication drew a groan out of him. “It appears to be a fracture, both your index and middle finger.”

The image of the next few weeks of idling, useless as he was in his current state, played out before his eyes, every bit as unwelcome as the offensive stench already wafting from the decaying ferals. And to think he had only just managed to convince the Scribes to release him. A week spent out of commission was a week too long. Lengths of precious time already lost to his stay aboard the Prydwen infirmary following his return. 

He had spent a lot of that time alone, the same few thoughts afflicting him for days on end. And in that stretch he had realized he was drowning; he had been for a long time now. The stress of the past months capsized him in waves, the only thing keeping him afloat being sheer willpower; though his reserve was fast depleting.

His concerns regarding the events at the Fort drowned out the majority of his thoughts. Up until only a few months prior, he had classed Knight Van’s actions towards him as strictly professional. In the time they had traveled together, Danse found the man fearless and dependable, and against his better judgment, he had grown to trust him. He had welcomed Van’s confidence in him and taken the man’s confession of his truth as a sign of good faith. But not once had he considered the man’s inclination towards him as anything beyond the purely platonic; least of all anything sexual.

He had never found himself particularly attractive either, always having floundered in the scraps of attention afforded him by those that slipped past Cutler’s machinations. Not that he considered himself ugly by any means. He had noticed as his body reached its primed form—a natural consequence of the years spent in hard training—more eyes trailed in his wake. This came as a surprise as he had only ever considered his body in the context of its utility. Its potential merely to fulfill the feats demanded of him by the nature of his position.

His life had always been framed in the lens of duty. Sexual coupling counted amongst these duties, though he had always reckoned such things would be reserved for a time when he was long past his physical prime. When his efforts would best be applied off the field. He imagined he would then settle down with a soldier who’d comprehend the gravitas of such things. Someone who knew that all else was secondary to the Brotherhood. Someone like Scribe Haylen.

Such were the beliefs he had long upheld. Up until the moment he found Van’s lips protesting against his own, stirring feelings within him he had long repressed. The kiss had caught him off-guard and he had rejected the man’s advances on principle. Rumors of a superior sweet on his charge would send tongues wagging, and not the good kind. Though to say he had hated it would be less than truthful. He realized the kiss had only gone on as long as it did because he had allowed it. Van was an admirable soldier. His charge. A friend. Blurring the lines past these marks would only raise complications in the long term.

After the Fort, Van disappeared without so much as a note or holotape. No one could account for his sudden departure, and as an unfortunate aside to the man’s current leading role in obtaining crucial Institute intel, the entire operation met a premature halt. Elder Maxson ordered temporary relief of all units excluding those in upper command. Ground units were to continue only the most basic of operations in the interim. Danse’s efforts in the past weeks had been predominantly geared towards the search for the missing Knight.

“We should get you patched up, Paladin.” Haylen’s face contorted in what may have been a smile, though it was more akin to a grimace.

They walked into the station, Haylen nudging Danse onto her chair with instructions to keep his arm upright. She returned with an armful of supplies. The stimpack she administered poked into his flesh; the sharp pangs then dulling into a more muted pressure that protested most at his knuckles. Danse watched as Haylen bent over his hand, pieces of her hair spilling forwards and tickling him. She looked young, her face free of the toils that oft etched themselves into the skins of locals. It sometimes eluded him how young some of these soldiers were. When she finished she gave his arm a reassuring pat, seemingly satisfied with her handiwork. Danse thanked her.

Hell was a welcome alternative to the tedium of the next few weeks.

Danse paced about the small of his office, taking pause to buff his armor and rearrange the sheets atop his desk. The alerts sent out in search of Knight Van had returned little to no workable information, contained to misightings and an irking few who thought it mighty clever to radio in locations that yielded naught but a herd of brahmin donning wigs of overturned mops. Brotherhood resistors no doubt. Tracking the Knight’s whereabouts was quickly proving itself to be no light affair. 

Detailing the notice for Van’s disappearance proved even more difficult. The man was not exceptionally distinctive, he had come to realize. He sported the same hardened look of those born to the wastes, though his propensity for bathing was perhaps a smidge more frequent than the rest. The finalized description of a ‘bull-eyed man with military crop fashioned in ponytail,’ encompassed a decent portion of the Commonwealth mercenary populace to boot. Danse’s leads had long run dry and he was relying on Haylen’s contacts for new eyes and ears.

Haylen ushered herself inside his office with a knock at the door. She dragged the chair around the metal desk, stopping short of the one Danse was sat. Haylen undid the tape and gauze, freeing his hand from its prison of colorful wraps. A smile played across Danse’s lips as the scrunching of his hand came away uncoupled with pain. By his side Haylen let out a sigh of relief. She faltered before settling on her question. “Paladin, there have been reports of a hidden cache situated around Mass Gravel and Sand. If you can spare the time, it would be greatly appreciated.”

The bobbing of Danse’s head began long before the last of the words left Haylen’s mouth. He needed the distraction. He had spent a lifetime meandering without purpose, any more would surely constitute as a jest in poor taste. Danse retrieved his abandoned helmet from atop its precarious perch of empty snack cake boxes and turned the valve of his power armor suit, its back flowering open to the tune of greased metal. 

A scurrying resounded, precedenting the entrance of a molerat that soon unearthed itself from underneath some fallen rubble. Danse raised the head of his gatling laser and took aim. He fingered the trigger but paused as the molerat scampered past, not a single glance spared his way. Six younglings trailed behind her. He lowered his gun and waited, watching as the runt bringing up the queue grew smaller and smaller until they disappeared in the corner of his peripherals.

Danse reviewed the coordinates relayed to him by Haylen. The destination marker blinked on the map of his P.A.I* (Power Armor Interface), overlaying the blip of his current location. He was close. He surveyed the room. A painting hung by the adjacent wall, slightly askew. Contained within its delicate frame of carved oak was a single juicy pear lounging by its throne of white ceramic. The peel took on a near glistening quality; impressive considering its painted medium. A single bite marred the perfect contours, its pale flesh poking out from underneath its supple skin. There was something quite obscene about the depiction. His cheeks felt warm.

Danse grasped either side of the wooden frame and lifted the painting from its peg. He set the lewd pear aside—turning the portrait towards the wall—to reveal the rusted metal of a wall-safe underneath. His armored fingers fumbled across the raised lip, the metal merely groaning, and not an inch relented to his efforts. 

The small screen of the terminal sat upon the desk glowed to life as Danse tapped at its keys. He fumbled through the strings displayed in green, laboring over the symbols and letters that made less sense the longer he mulled over them. At last, the winning combination clicked into place, the gears of the safe whirring before settling into a loud clank as the door swung outward. He pocketed the collection of holotapes and texts and made his way outside. 

A light breeze shook out the decaying trees, dead leaves plunging downward towards their ruin. The distant sounds of combat could be heard long before they could be seen, streaks of red painting the sky as laser beams plunged themselves into the body of a radstag. Spurts of scarlet shot outwards and blackened the ground. 

The bodies of the combatants took on more detail with each footfall. The man wielding the laser let out a loud cry, startling the creature into a momentary stasis. Danse watched as the stranger raised the weapon one last time, pointing the familiar barrel at the radstag’s heart. 

Danse squinted, blinking the sun out of his eyes as he focused on the gun in the man’s hands. The grip was wrapped in what may have once been white tape, though it had long since yellowed from wear and skin grease. But what enraptured him was its barrel, melded together from junk scraps and a single piece of red ribbon that swung loosely from its tip. Danse ran towards the man, stopped just short of him in time to the radstag’s lifeless body contorting over the cracked asphalt.

“Paladin Danse.” The soldier saluted him.

“That gun, how did you come to acquire it?”

The soldier shifted the gun in his hands, fidgeting with the red ribbon. He dropped his gaze and cleared his throat for a few drawn-out seconds. He finally managed, “Oh, this old thing. It was a gift from a… friend.”

“And who might this ‘friend’ be?”

The soldier was all but quaking in his boots, his foot tapping out the erratic rhythm of his mental duress. He opened his mouth in the stammerings of an excuse that devolved into a stumbling confession. Danse’s expression hardened. He relieved the soldier of the weapon and handed off his spare pistol before sending him on his way.

“Knight Rhys,” Danse said, “a word.”

Rhys looked up amidst his hammering at the workbench. He exchanged a look with Haylen who glanced at him over the top of her radio. She shrugged her shoulders at him in response. The door clicked behind Rhys as he shut it to the command of the Paladin’s crooked finger. Rhys took a seat.

Danse pulled out Righteous Authority and slammed it onto the desk, the clattering of the metal grating his ears. “Knight, explain to me how this came to be in the possession of another Brotherhood soldier.”

There was an instant change in Rhys, his default sneer deepening into a scowl. Distress took residence between the man’s brows. “I thought it the best course of action to partition the remainder of the wastelander’s goods. For all we know he’s as good as dead. There’s no use letting the goods go to waste,” said Rhys.

A tremor overtook Danse’s hands, emanating from underneath his chin where they were currently clasped. He massaged circles into his eyes with his forefingers, wishing the soothing trails would ward the tension away. Rhys rubbed his hands across his pants.

“So, if I’m understanding this correctly, you deemed it the best course of action to pawn off the remainder of your brother’s goods in exchange for a handful of caps?”

Rhys flinched, the speed of his trailing hands increased, nearly chafing his skin in the process. Rhys’ confession broke the pregnant silence, “It was poor foresight on my part. Pardon my actions, Paladin.”

Danse got up from his seat and buffed the metal of his T-60 with the dust rag retrieved from the hollow of his suit. He felt compelled to occupy his hands for fear of his reaction if left idle. Rhys wriggled nervously in his seat. After a time the Paladin spoke, “Recover all the items you distributed. All of them must be accounted for, no exceptions. Return them to my custody. Dismissed.”

Rhys’ mouth folded into a tight line. He parted from the room with a salute.

“That’s all of it.” Rhys wrung out the last of the contents burrowed in his canvas pack. A mix of goods—assorted junk, stimpacks, and a box of loose bobby pins—spilled forward into the awaiting box. Danse sifted through the pieces, marking those present with a small ‘x’ next to the appropriate entries on the rough list of Haylen’s compose. All were accounted for, save for one entry marked as, ‘unidentifiable document,’ that Danse showed to Rhys. 

The man’s face smoothed out with a new dawn of realization. He excused himself, sending up a storm of loud rummaging, before reappearing with the document in question. He dropped it into the box. Rhys lingered by the door, a few seconds elapsed in silence before he departed. 

Danse slumped onto his chair, burying his face under his hands. In the space newly vacated of the concerns regarding Van’s personal effects, he occupied with his drifting thoughts. He ventured back before Van, before Elder Maxson, even before the Brotherhood. Just him and Cutler. He recalled one night in particular, drinking the day’s foibles away at the local bar. His gaze met repeatedly by a sweet girl, hair as bright as Cutler’s. A careless brush of his hand as he waited by the bar that led to a kiss out back by the heaps; tucked away behind a pile of junk. He remembered her pretty mouth, soft and pink, even prettier wrapped around his cock.

Danse felt a pressure amount in his hips. The door shook from the force applied to close it, the lock rattling into place as he turned it for good measure. He returned to his desk and unzipped his jumpsuit, pulling out his already burgeoning cock. As always, he eased into it, starting with slow strokes down his length, ample consideration paid to the sensitive spot tucked away underneath. Slow and precise. His dominant hand took lead, running up and down his now fully hard cock, the slick of precum oozing over and glazing him. He tried to remember the color of her eyes. Blue, perhaps? He couldn’t remember.

Danse added his left hand to the mix, using it to massage short pumps into the base of his cock and his right to stroke his upper half, teasing his engorged head in gentle circles. He had gripped her hair, surprisingly short in his hands. Her hair framed her face, undone from the tie that had held it back in place. Brown hair sprouted down to her trim shoulders that nearly doubled in span. The mouth wrapped around him grew larger, wetter. Fervent eyes that seemed alight with a hunger glared back at him. Hunger for him. The girl from the bar appeared a girl no more; instead, he gazed down upon Van, watching him as he stuffed his insubordinate mouth full.

Danse came then, stifling his groan into the crook of his elbow as he jerked his hips in rhythm to the residual tides of his release. When the haze of his addled mind lifted, he let out a long breath; it felt like the first in ages. Danse startled at the knock at his door. He hurriedly retrieved the abandoned rag and wiped himself clean, tucking himself away and taking care to zip with care for fear of snagging his extremities. He unlocked the door.

He noticed the hulking contraption before he did the people wielding it, Haylen and Rhys struggling under the pressure of whatever it was they were encumbered with. Danse helped them carry it inside, setting it down by his power armor. When they caught their breaths after much wheezing, Haylen cleared the air with an explanation.

“Armor leg stabilizers,” she called them. Jointly fashioned by herself and Rhys, applying the techniques stowed away in the tapes Danse had retrieved days earlier. Rhys mumbled his way through a second apology at Haylen’s prodding and Danse finally relented to a smile. Indeed, he was drowning. But in this moment, he did not feel quite so alone amongst the waves.

Danse turned the document over in his hand. It was devoid of color, inked only in black and white. The mass in the middle shaped in an arcing contour contained within two sharp lines, as if it were whittled from a larger disc. There was a gradation in tone, the hues painted in individual strokes, though the way they flowed together appeared deliberate. He had not a clue what the document inferred. About the only thing he could be certain of were the large looping letters, smudged but still legible: _our way forward_.

Haylen rushed into Danse’s office, her face flush from exertion. Danse quirked a brow in question. Whatever followed next was lost between huffs as Haylen caught her breath.

“Scribe?” Danse asked.

“Paladin, we have received word from the Prydwen. Knight Van—”

Of what came next Danse was uncertain. At the mention of Van’s name his body reacted of its own accord, everything from him donning his power armor to his flight aboard the vertibird hurtling towards the blip in the sky, a right blur. Up until the moment he found himself looking upon that familiar face. Though it appeared not so familiar. The distance apart had done a number on the man, his usual sturdy frame having shrunken and weathered. As if he had withered. Sleepless nights tucked themselves underneath the man’s eyes.

Danse felt everything at once. He had lived this very instant many times, preparing his thoughts and words for when this moment would finally come to pass. And here he stood. Those words he had chosen with such care lost to the waves. The weight of his helmet grew heavier in his hands.

“Why did you do it?”

“Which part?” The man was ever so quick to respond. His smart mouth seemed the only part of him that had bested the withering. After a pause Van answered Danse’s question in full, “I needed it.” Somehow the man had managed to answer his question and yet not at all, his reply rousing more questions than answers.

“Where did you go?” Danse asked.

“Away from here,” Van said. “Though you’ll be happy to know, I retrieved that cylon. We have our way into the Institute.”

Happy? In his current state he was many things but the former was perhaps the furthest from his truth. Van appeared to shake despite the warm of the night air. He crossed his arms over his chest.

“You were reckless,” Danse accused.

“Oh yeah? About as reckless as you when you threw yourself under all that rubble.”

“Such is my duty, you are my charge!”

“If that’s all, as of tonight you’ve been relieved of your ‘duty.’ I submitted a request for transfer. Well, I had a good ol’ chat with Elder Maxson more like.” Van leaned against the railing of the landing deck. “But don’t worry, I left the best part out.” He smirked.

A tightness gripped Danse’s chest. It was with immense difficulty that he formed his next words, “If this is pertaining to the incident at the Fort…” His ears felt hot as he trailed off, unsure of how to continue.

“No. I refuse to tolerate any more of your hero bullshit. I have enough blood on my hands as it is. As for what happened at the Fort; it was nothing.” Van looked off to the side, eyes fixating on the stars. “Just a lapse in judgment, though you seemed eager enough. For a time I thought maybe I could entertain your loneliness. Sully the unobtainable Paladin. But you really are as resolute as they say.”

Danse walked over to the Knight, leaving but the smallest of spaces between them. “Look at me and repeat back to me what you just stated.”

Van looked up to meet Danse’s gaze. “I have nothing more to say to you,” Van said. “We’re done.” The man’s eye twinged, so fleeting that Danse nearly missed it.

“You’re not the only one who’s lost someone,” Danse’s voice was quiet.

“Haven’t we all?” Van smiled a sad smile.

“Knight, do not turn your back on me. That’s a direct order,” Danse cautioned towards Van’s retreating form as he turned towards the docked vertibird. Van paused, one foot perched over the metal step, hand on the railing. Pain gripped the man’s face, scrunching it before relenting its hold.

“I don’t take my orders from you. Not anymore.”

The helmet of Danse’s power armor groaned, the glass of its eyes shattering from the force of his grip. He watched the airborne vertibird grow smaller and smaller, his chest clutched in a tightness that wrung him relentless and dry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re finally moving into the homestretch baby! I’ve been trying my hand at fashioning the chapters so they have better self-contained narrative arcs, it’s been fun practicing so far. 
> 
> I know it’s popular fancanon that Danse is a virgin but I just can’t believe that a man that pretty would not have had some action, considering the sparse offering of eligible bachelors in the wasteland. 
> 
> Anyway, it’s my goal to finish this fic before real life responsibilities eat away at all my free time. Fingers crossed.


	7. Her

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \+ Blood & Gore tag added
> 
> Welcome aboard the pain train

He had managed to deliver his canned reply to Danse’s inevitable question—the man was predictable, to say the least—and though he had coasted on the crutch of a hasty handful of grape mentats, staring into those sorrowful eyes had churned his insides anew with a heavy mortar of guilt.

The man he had come to know as an unwavering force of assurance and will, reduced in moments to something akin to an abused animal, each word Van rebuked from his own mouth a scourge that tore into the soft of him, ripping his skin free of his flesh and carving out cruel serrated chunks. He discarded himself of all the pieces that yearned to envelop Danse in his embrace; that longed to whisper apologies into his skin, and brush the pain away with the caress of his mouth against those oh so perfect lips. Perfection only marred by the frown that ruined them; a travesty of his own make.

Stay by my side. Don’t leave me. I’m afraid to be alone. 

The words that he clung to but dared not speak for uttering them aloud could only assure the end. Danse was a good man, selfless enough to stake his life for a near stranger, even for someone so wholly undeserving. Even for someone without purpose, a total and utter failure; unable to preserve the one and only thing he had sought to protect. Taking down the likes of the Institute all but inked the initials of death with a grand flourish over the malapropos stain of his worthless fucking existence. It was for the best. The Commonwealth would be free of the boogeyman and one particular spineless coward. 

The beige of the old synth’s coat went aflutter in the wind. Nick waited a distance by the police station, pressing himself against the wall between two alleyways. Only the small pinprick of his orange halo visible as it chased along the end of his cigarette. The air above him gained momentum, a short while that passed with the vertibird landing atop the eroded ‘H’ of the helipad a whiles away. A slouched figure walked towards him until the dim light of the distant flood panels trickled across the man’s forlorn face. Van slumped into Nick’s arms, his weight heavy against him. They stood for a moment in silence, Nick angling the butt of his cigarette over the man’s head before resigning to defeat and crushing it beneath the tip of his boot.

It was light when Nick broke the news. The synth had wagered on the withholding of his lead for fear of Van’s reaction considering the man’s delicate state, opting to reveal it when the sleep had sapped some of the strain from his eyes. Nick’s words brought forth a renewed energy in Van, his tired limbs dragging themselves proper upright.

“I’ve tracked that ol’ merc. Goes by Kellogg, last seen by the dock a ways out.”

“Let’s get moving then,” Van said. Nick grabbed hold of Van’s arm, steadying him as he swayed to his feet.

“Think you can manage?” Nick appraised him, his yellow eyes searching his own. In response Van cranked the bolt of his hunting rifle, slinging the strap across his shoulder. Nick released Van, letting his hand drop to his side. 

The days disappeared without much notice, the only indication of their passage, the sun languishing in the sky before giving way to repeated darkness. Darkness that pervaded him wherever he went. And as of current, it nipped at his heels, in presage to the steps that drew him closer towards his wife’s killer, with every lick of his boot against the scorched skin of the earth. 

Nick handed off the contents of his pack, offering Van the food items stowed away for the long journey ahead. It was an odd assortment but such came without surprise. Nick’s Gen 2 components lacked the sophistication to replicate taste; a rather cruel joke to add atop the already humorless routine of the Institute. But taste was the last on Van’s mind, his thoughts far gone, living in delusions of wringing the life free from Kellogg’s blasted bastard throat. 

“I’m going to enjoy killing Kellogg, I’ll paint the walls red and carve his eyes out. Dust his fingers one-by-one. Cave his skull in and watch that ugly fucking grin collapse.” The look Nick gave him confirmed he had in fact given voice to the violent thoughts that looped in his head.

“You feelin’ alright?” Nick spaced his words out, with the liberal grace one would afford a wounded animal. 

“Not really,” Van said. “That son of a bitch murdered an innocent woman. A woman who happens to be my wife. She was innocent, she was fucking innocent!” Van brandished the knife tucked away in his boot, hacking away at the raised root of a dead stump until the blade finally lodged itself deep. Van cried out, his scream anguished. Nick held the man in his arms and muffled the rest of his cries into the thick of his coat. When Van finally stilled—the shakes few and far between—Nick loosened his hold, letting Van right himself to his feet.

“We’ll find him,” Nick said. It seemed as much an assurance for the old synth as it was intended for himself. Van planted his leg over the stump, leveraging his hold over the knife’s handle. He heaved, the heels of his boots digging into the tree and earth until the blade relented, pulling free in one fell swoop. He tucked it back into his boot.

The night wind breathed wisps of the woman’s hair and wrung out her svelte form. Clouds of breath arose, a moment dawdled then dispersing with a quickness. 

“So what’s the occasion?” He asked.

“We’ve got our first real lead on the case. An old acquaintance of your father’s, he was let go a few months back. As suspected he was urged to remain silent but has since come forward with an offer to provide a full witness account. In exchange for total anonymity.”

Nora fumbled with her lighter, her cold fingers slipping over the tiny disk. Brow furrowed in concentration, she wrestled for a time, the stubborn wheel still and mocking. A barely audible ‘fucker,’ slipped past the small of her mouth currently free of the burdening cigar. The laugh escaped him of its own volition, Nora’s sharp glance silencing him. Van cleared his throat.

“Here.” He reached his hand out and encircled hers, pressing his thumb over the wheel and flicking it to life, a steady flame climbing to sway in the breeze. Van’s hand lingered, an odd warmth spreading throughout him despite the combined frigidity of the night air and Nora’s freezing fingers. And had it not been for the slight shift in the woman’s eyes and color now daubing her cheeks, he may have dismissed it as another of his countless delusions. It was with a reluctance that he tucked his hand away in his pocket.

“You want a drag?” Nora offered her cigar.

“I don’t smoke,” Van answered. “It reminds me of my father.” The lie slipped past without so much as a pause, lingering in the air amidst the billowing clouds. His father had never been fond of smoke, an oddity amongst his peers for whom nicotine was breathed as freely as air. Though he’d always reckoned it was more for lack of circumstance than want. But then again, he had never really known his father. Little more than a stranger to him his entire waking life. The little he had come to know, ironically, had come from strangers. So many things he had not known. Things he had not cared to have known.

The still mask of Nora’s face shifted, an unplaceable detail altering the smooth lines. She seemed at a loss for words. He changed the subject.

“Besides, I’d rather not wager on culturing a dependency. Enough trouble as it is.” Such was true enough. He had never been one for moderation. “Though, I have to admit, for such a dignified woman your taste is that of an old geezer.”

Amusement twinkled in Nora’s eyes. She took a moment to formulate her response, her words deliberate, “And that would make you a prospective grave robber. Would it not?”

So she had noticed the way he looked at her. “Is that a problem for you?”

Nora stepped towards him, dead leaves crunching under her wedged heels. She pulled the cigar away from her lips, the smoke blowing out and fanning across his face. It smelled of poorly fermented shit. “I don’t date clients. But when this is all over, you can pay me back.” 

She looked up at him, her mouth perked and teasing, hovering a hair's breadth away under his chin. His dipped head came away wanting, long slender fingers pressed firmly into his chest and pushing him away. A breathy laugh whose source he could not place, rang out. His only thoughts intent on those pretty lips.

They recruited Dogmeat along the trail, the hound sniffing across the dead wastes, until something brought him short. He pawed at the ground and sniffed some more, barking at the lagging travelers. Van knelt by the mutt, lifting the blackened remains of a cigar. It smelled of old and city airs; of an age past. Van handed it off to Nick who turned the stick over in his hands.

“San Francisco Sunlights, some high-brow taste for a gun for hire,” said Nick, his fingers coming away black. The soot clung to the roughened material of his parts. “Haven’t tried this one in a while.” He sniffed along the length of the cigar. A ways ahead, Dogmeat continued along the trail, his long tail conjuring dust clouds that masked his retreat.

The three shuffled along, downing a yao guai with relative ease. Dogmeat buried his gnashers into the creature’s flank and Van blasted through its head with three succinct bullets. The expression of fear intermingled with pain worn by the fallen corpse struck an uncomfortable chord of familiarity, brown eyes rooting him back in the cold of his cryopod, frost raining down from the glass and sticking to his vault suit as they shook free of his banging fists. 

He watched the bald figure raise the gun towards his wife, the bullet muted as it ripped free of its silencer and straight into Nora’s exposed forehead, a gored hole sprouting its cruel crimson petals across her pale face. Fear eternally imposed over her beautiful lifeless features. Something wet fell onto his shoulder, dripping down from somewhere above. Rotten floorboards eaten away by age loomed overhead and he found himself on his knees cradling Nora’s dead body. Except it wasn’t Nora. It was Danse, his eyes open and unseeing, all life drained from his fair skin. The grisly bullet hole caving in the prominent forehead glaring back at him with a menace.

Van wasn’t sure when the illusions subsided and reality began, the next thing he recalled being Dogmeat licking his face between whimpers, Nick having sidled along sometime amidst the mutt’s whines. In the next, Van found two fingers in his mouth, Nick gauging his temperature with the thermal pads in his digits before pronouncing him ‘in sorry state and unfit for travel,’ admonishing him into an early bunk. Dogmeat curled up next to him, his furry body warm against his clammy skin.

The pinched voice that hid a despondent plea was what drove him outside that familiar parking lot. ‘We’ve found him,’ was what she had spoken but the words she chose not to voice rang even louder, overtaking his waking thoughts and tormenting him. Its unrelenting hold pervaded him all the way through Friday afternoon traffic, past the mocking lights that cycled red in succession, and accompanied him into that very same parking lot. He idled in the empty gray, a light knock against his window alerting him. Nora peered in, her short hair scraping against the glass. He unlocked the door.

The dulled thrum of the idling motor was the only break amidst the silence. A young woman and a small child walked past a small ways ahead, their smiles strange and alien. The smell of green tea and pear blossom masked an underlying odor of unwashed hair. Van cranked open a window. It was Nora who first spoke, her words jarring in the cramped space.

“You were right.” She sat staring out the windshield, eyes fixed ahead. “Your father’s death wasn’t accidental, not in the slightest.”

An emptiness hollowed him out. He had foregone the short of his leave on the vapors of hope. The tiniest of flames he had kindled, some small part within him that held out a plea for some good to come to fruition. But he was left with nothing. Nothing but a pittance of what he now recognized as stupidity that had donned itself in the illusion of hope. What a fool he was.

Nora went on, “It seems his employer was short of the projected ‘annual bracket’ for their corporate-owned life insurance policy. It’s unfortunately exactly what it sounds like. They… decided on the illustrious route of staging an accident to satisfy the quota.”

Van breathed in long and deep. He closed his eyes, where images of his father fast asleep on the tattered armchair—hand perched over the rest, grazing over exposed necks of stale beer—shone upon them. The dusty reel of his childhood rolled through its highlights, coming to an unceremonious halt as a hand roused him.

“There’s one other thing.” Nora hesitated, filling the car with a quiet long past its welcome. His gaze was unmet, the woman’s brown eyes roving listlessly, seeing all but him. “The proprietor who paid out the insurance, it was Baumen-Hauffer Ltd. He’s… my father’s business partner.”

The truth he had sought so desperately, plucked and thrown before him; laid bare. “I guess that’s it then,” he said, tongue heavy in his throat. “I found the truth.”

“We’ve come all this way, surely we have to see it through?”

“It won’t be easy, and he’s your father. You don’t want to defy him.”

A firmness whelmed Nora’s voice, rising as it filled the small space, “No. I agreed to help and I intend to keep my word on that.” She pulled on Van’s arm and dragged him close. She kissed him. “And don’t you fucking dare tell me what to do.”

She left him to mull over her parting words, the car door slammed behind her and her retreating heels ringing against concrete until they were swallowed by gray.

A splash of red stood against dominant gray, a conspicuous slab of metal wedged centerpoint amidst the stone walls in garish fashion. The banners that hung from the wayward ledges remained bright, almost as pristine as they had appeared all those years ago; back when the concepts of service and duty were still fresh in him. They had once instilled a small sense of pride but now evoked nothing but anger. It was the stench that drew him out of the memory, an utter foul lingering thing that spurned him from the delusions of past.

The entrance to the Fort was blocked, barricaded by a collection of random debris. Most likely a final harried attempt of the soldiers, desperate to erect some barrier between themselves and the impending doom heralded by the hell sirens. Driven by the most basic of instincts—the pure animal in all—frantic to cling to any semblance of living, no matter how shitty. Already Van tasted bile. He spat on the ground, fighting the urge to vomit.

Dogmeat sniffed at a rather dense portion of the makeshift barricade, his bark alerting them to the bloodied wrap waving loosely from a wooden stake. This was it. But a heap of random shit and rubble staying his course to rip the tongue straight from the throat of the motherfucker who shot his fucking wife.

Van dismissed Dogmeat with a well-deserved scratch behind the ears. By the time the hound had bounded off a ways down the beaten path leaving Nick’s pockets a tad lighter, the two found themselves in the decommissioned parking garage. The ramps downward were devoid of life, only shadows littered in their wake. On the submost level, they happened upon a lone door, the knob gray and unyielding. A minor aggravation in any other circumstance but in this instance, a total fucking waste of time that Van promptly rid with a bullet. The yellow discs of Nick’s eyes flickered in silent understanding, his reprimand waived for the occasion.

Their slow ascent proved more perilous, the sounds of enemy synths channeling down the steps in a unified mechanical trill, the sheer volume of which warned of many. Nick peeped over the edge of the wall, pulling back to a firm hand placed over his shoulder. Van whispered, “Even if you back out now, it’ll be strictly off the books come the hammed retelling.”

“And let you take all the glory for burying the Institute’s number one goon? Not a chance.” The steel behind Nick’s eyes shone with resolution. 

Van urged, “Look, if this is coming from a place of obligation—”

“Let me cut you off right there, sonny. If anyone’s keeping tally of debts paid, you’re staunchly in the negatives just about now,” Nick interjected. “You don’t get to pick and choose when the going’s bright, I’ll be there to the end. All the way through to see you squeeze that bullet. Right in between the eyes of that sonofabitch.”

With the hand still perched over the old synth’s arm, Van gave a tight squeeze. A silent thanks and prayer for a speedy end to this living hell. He had ignored it. The flames that had encompassed him, melting him whole. He was not certain of what came next but the need within him urged him forward.

The time for extinguishing was now.

The litigation went forth at Nora’s insistence. Admittedly, he had doubted her resolve, assuming it a matter of time before she relented to her father’s wiles. Van’s case was the last in a long string of libelous affairs, drudging the names of the powers that be through squalor and ruin. Disownment, her father had threatened. But Nora had followed through; her father just as true to his word. Blood really did run thicker than water. 

She had appeared undeterred, a triumphant glow in her as she stood the stand. It was not until much later, during the quieter moments, that he had caught her eye adrift in wistful thoughts. But justice had prevailed that day. Well to the degree that dues had been dealt—and rightfully so—to those that had seen his father to his early grave. But that did little to change the fact. His father just as cold as the day he made his way six feet under. Another to pad the prime real estate of the afterlife; score settled for the luxury of being dead—albeit with a fancier slab and cozy spot with slightly less bird shit. 

He had also made good on his promise, with what he scraped together between savings and the payout from the litigation, sitting bright against her slender finger. It had been an adjustment, his weary nature at odds with this new state of being. Their occasional spats inspired likewise, him certain it’d be the last; each slam of the door a surefire siren of the end. But somehow she continued to stay. 

His resolve whittled, and what little reservations that remained, lost somewhere amidst strewn clothes and the heavenly joy of her melting into him. However, come the time he learned of the life that grew inside of her; he was at a loss. Denial, confusion, but mostly fear, gripped him. An almost primal thing. A recoiling of his fundamental being that urged him to run. Far, far away.

“Let’s name him after your father,” she said. He thought it a poor idea. Perhaps even the worst of the lot. And there were a whole lot of them, a thousand thoughts cloying at him. Each more demanding than the last, nothing in common save for the depressing nature of them all. There were a few good ones amongst them, though simply _not enough_, as some would say.

He hadn’t much fight in him, least of all these days. The best he managed was a begrudging compromise, his father’s name in conjunction with her grandfather’s. The result a middling ground, rather ordinary, but it laid him at ease. Settling his paranoia of assigning a dead man’s fate to that of the living.

So ‘Shaun’ it was.

The synth went down with a sputter, the blue and red of its exposed wiring crackling inside its chest cavity. The smell of burnt plastic invaded him. Bodies, stray limbs, machinery: all strewn upon the ground, indiscernible from the other. Made singular in death. The green of military fatigues, ones from the Old World, thrust him back onto the fields of battle not so long ago. But it had been ages; two-hundred ages ago.

A voice channeled over the intercom, its tone husky—from age or faulty wiring—he was not certain. “Okay, you made it. I’m just up ahead. My synths are standing down. Let’s talk.”

He exchanged a glance with Nick, who leveled his pistol towards the door latch. The metal swung forward on rusted hinges. The cruel reminder of some past foible, perhaps earned from another poor bastard who had suffered a similarly miserable fate, hacked itself over the eyes that now fixed him in its unwavering glower. This fucking cunt. Van raised the head of his hunting rifle, wedging Kellogg’s head smack dab in the middle of his crosshairs.

“Not even a ‘hi?’ You wound me,” Kellogg’s mouth upturned in a sickly grin. Van spat on the ground. This motherfucker really had the audacity to fix him with a right smirk as if he were merely exchanging jests. When even groveling would be a pittance in the ways of repent. He had taken everything. Nora was gone. And so when he pulled the trigger, the bullet ripping free of its barrel and the smirk straight off the merc’s face, it was with an indiscriminate vitriol.

“_You fucker_!” Kellogg screamed, gripping the side of his now even uglier mug, one eye dangling from its socket; white jelly splotched with blood. A sudden barrage of blue beams ripped through the air, coloring the white space with cool halos. A great lurch threw Van off-kilter and behind a metal filing cabinet. Nick tucked in beside him, metal hand still poised over his arm.

“Think that was the right call?” The synth asked yellow disks spun up in a flurried cycle. The look upon Van’s face quieted Nick; a silent one, but an answer nonetheless. A laser ricocheted off the edge of the cabinet, the heat licking and spewing it out molten and orange. It grazed Nick, the sleeve of his coat blackened and in tatters, hanging off his arm. “Oh, now he’s done it,” he said, sidestepping from the shadows and spitting two bullets from his 10mm, deadshot into the noggin of a nearby crony. It rained metal and sparks.

Between the blue blitz and another of Kellogg’s muscle firing a shot much too close for comfort, the man himself had inched his way towards an open chest from which he produced a pistol, waved frantically over his melting mug. With a hand clutched to contain what little remained of his face, his spare cocked the hammer; the barrel rotating and locking the bullet into place.

“I just wanted to _talk_! You cocksucker, come out and settle this like a man.”

The ringing in Van’s ears grew even louder, if such a thing were possible, the deafening assault of gunfire suppressing his cries as he shot a wayward bullet out of cover. The bullet grazed a desk chair, the recoil catapulting it towards an advancing synth, downing it in an entanglement of limbs. The thinning of the enemy’s numbers allowed a brief pocket of reprieve, Van took advantage of the pause to abandon the metal drawer in favor of the heavy oak desk, molding his back to the charred surface.

A blue beam whizzed past his shoulder as a reminder—one wanton step a damned guarantee of a toasty farewell. From here he could discern Kellogg’s animal shrieks stippled amongst the raging hellfire. The minions descended upon Nick, exploding in a shower of fire, burning away like paper dolls to flame. A gleam circled in his eyes, the yellows spinning with haste until they stilled. A hole bore its way through the beige of the old synth’s coat, a sinister prick to match the black of his sleeve. Kellogg lowered his gun.

Nothingness seeped into Nick’s eyes, leaving a hollowed white shell where there once stood Diamond City’s greatest detective. The scream that ripped out of Van was barely human, so feral and tormented it was, somehow even less human than the deplorable _thing_ before him. The reverberations in his chest puppeteered his motions, his head absent of all thought; his muscles primed for a sole intent. Kill.

His conscious stream of thought, active only long enough for him to snake his hands around Kellogg’s bastard throat. He gripped hard. Squeezed.

His vision clouded over, the white walls overtaken by hideous floral print. It made him feel ill, the way their sick wavy forms rippled against the walls. Silent and observing, all around him at once. Mocking and taunting him. Witness to his utter uselessness as Nora trembled and shook in his arms. Her tears brimmed and overflowed, a constant stream without respite. He wondered how a human could shed so much water without expiring. But she had expired. 

Alive in only the most literal sense. The darkness that loomed over her having won at last. He blamed himself. Their ill-fated acquaintance, a tempest, that had swept them up in a flurry of lust and rash decisions. And as quickly as it had struck, it had left, leaving nothing but devastation in its wake. And the poor soul who had the misfortune of loving a fool—with nothing but the emptiness in her stomach.

The pressure that clamped down on his fingers ripped him from one hell and into another, the pain excruciating and painting his vision red. The bastard had managed to maneuver his head just enough to snag Van’s fingers in his mouth. Van screamed as the white enamel cut into him, sinking past his flesh and through bone, snapping them clean off at the second knuckle. Where his fingers were, now cried red, spewing and slobbering over the jagged stumps.

A bronze paperweight, shaped in an anvil, was retrieved from its lonesome corner. Gripped tightly in his abled hand, Van bludgeoned Kellogg’s face. The skull caved easily. The little of his face collapsing like a crushed tangerine, all with a wet whistle from his throat to round out the twisted illusion. The rawed meat moved beneath the loosed skin, spluttering and spilling out onto the white tiles. Van’s missing fingers poked out from the pink of what used to be the bastard’s mouth.

When his hands finally ceased their mindless assault, there was red. Red everywhere. In the walls, on the floor, soaking his hands and pants; and in the moment he could have deluded himself into the belief of it staining his very soul. But such a thing was not possible. As black as it were.

Van rushed to Nick’s side, pushing the jacket aside to examine the bullet wound. His hands flubbed uselessly over the synthetic parts, accomplishing little else apart from smearing himself over the white plastic. He pleaded with the silence—Nick’s eyes unseeing and his ears unhearing. Yet again, he had failed. His short-lived triumphs always in hand with failure.

His wife’s killer, dead. Nora, dead. Nick, dead. Perhaps just about the only one he’d managed to save, away from him. But alive.

The cruel iron of the fallen pistol gleamed under the cold fluorescent light. It felt heavy in his hand, the metal cold against his skin. He pressed the barrel into his temple, pulse throbbing against the cool tip. There was nothing left. It was time to go. He closed his eyes. 

In the newfound darkness he stared into wide brown eyes, fixed and frozen in fear. In the next, he saw his father and the empty pit of the earth as it swallowed him whole, the few there to witness his parting, more intent on the refreshments than the gaping hole into which he disappeared; forgotten and gone forever.

Then there was Nora. She smiled as she stared at him from the stand, the dimple in her chin deepening as it did when she was sad, but also in times of happiness. He never knew someone so brave and yet so reckless, so willing to stake her own happiness so he could have some of his own. She was braver than him, her resolve steel and steadfast, even when the stirring in her stomach had aroused only fear in him.

She was intelligent, almost to a startling degree, her mind as keen as her tongue sharp. The words that flowed from her mouth every bit as beautiful and worldly as she was; her grace and patience a light that warmed with its patient flame. And so she had done for him. A beacon of hope that sustained him. A candle held against his darkness, comforting him and keeping the shadows at bay.

He wanted to spend every day in her arms. Feeling her breathing next to him, feeling her touch lingering against his skin. He missed the way her breath trailed against his neck, panting, gasping for air. The way her fingers curled under his, tugging at the sheets. But he also missed the little things. The way her breath slowly turned to deep relaxed snores as she slipped into sleep. The way their hands naturally fell together, hers reaching for his, grasping gently. The feeling of her warmth against his bare skin. He missed it all so much. He missed the quiet moments that were all theirs and theirs alone. The feelings of silence and ease. Moments of peace he wished he could share with her forever.

But she was gone. He would never hear her laugh again, no matter how desperately he willed it. That small and muffled thing, quieted in an attempt to mask the snorting that embarrassed her so much. So imperfectly perfect to him. Her slender fingers slipped past him, further from his grasp with every waking moment that dulled her memory.

There was so much he had meant to tell her. So much he still needed to say.

He had meant to lay her to rest and put an end to this flaming heap of shit from which there was no escape. Killing Kellogg was supposed to assure these things, or so he had thought. But he couldn’t bring himself to end it. The moment he was to disappear and the memories fade, it would be as if nothing had been. The bright light of her existence huffed out, lost to the void. And he couldn’t bear the thought of their time fading altogether. It was too important for that.

The pistol rattled in his grip and shook free the wet of his chin. He lowered the gun, the ruby glove of his hand slick with sweat and blood, both not entirely his own. His hand felt heavy, much too heavy.

“Bastard nicked my capacitor, been meaning for a change.” The husky drawl was strained, a static overlaying the tone. The yellow spun up again, steadying into honeyed discs.

Exhaustion crawled into Van and it was all he could manage to slump into Nick’s shoulder, the relief extending past his fingertips and scrunching into the fabric of the old synth’s coat.

“_Goddamnit Nick_,” he said. Though it was little more than a whisper, so quiet and fragile it was. The raw pain licked against his consciousness, willing his mind. The affliction escaped him in groans. Nick caught sight of the bloodied stumps of his fingers, fashioning the remains of his pride and dignity into long beige strips, used to wrap around Van. He salvaged what he could from between the cracked teeth of Kellogg’s mouth.

Night was heavy in the air, the sky teeming with stars. He longed to sleep, sleep the pain and heat away. Long tracks dragged themselves into the earth where his feet shuffled behind him. He hung off Nick’s shoulder. More static filled the air, he first assumed it Nick’s busted capacitor but such thoughts quickly dispersed in the cool breeze, the chill gnawing him straight to the bone as his radio blared to life:

“_RED ALERT. Brotherhood forces to stand ready and alert. A synth infiltrator has been identified within our ranks. The former Paladin Danse, pronounced enemy and traitor. Shoot on sight._”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confession time, I wrote chapter 1 of this story on a whim so I have gone back and revised the opening paragraphs to better establish the tone for the piece and give insight to Van as a character. If you care to read the revision it’s just the first five paragraphs of chapter 1.
> 
> As for this chapter… damn was it hard to write. Pouring one out for our girl Nora, gone but not forgotten. RIP.
> 
> Anyway, if you’re enjoying my work I encourage you to drop me a line! As much as I enjoy the sound of my own words I’m sure all of yours are much lovelier <333 Every little bit helps to spur the writer soul :)


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